Immaculate Protection
by lilsherlockian1975
Summary: Molly's life is turned upside down by the reappearance of James Moriarty. However she's unaware of how it's affecting Sherlock and her friends. Jim's been very busy, plotting - planning and setting them all up for a different kind of fall. Can Sherlock and Molly survive his divine intervention?
1. Your Faith Was Strong But You Needed Pro

_Okay, I've been gone for an age, and for that I'm sorry. RL really gets in the way sometimes. But I've been working on this story (on and off) for months and I'm finally ready to share it. I've never really tackled a Jimcentric fic, so I'm a bit nervous. Your support would be much appreciated. I have so many people to thank here, first and foremost M &M: MrsMCrieff, she read this months ago and pushed and pushed me to keep working on it. She also has given me ALL the Birt help (as always!) and has been a great friend. Next, MizJoely who not only beta'd this fic but is frankly the most amazing cheerleader in the world. If you find any mistakes, by the way, they belong to me! Her support is absolutely priceless! There are more thanks to come in specific chapters, keep an eye out!_

 _The chapter titles are lyrics from Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'. And they are not random._

 _ **Warnings:**_ _(this chapter) - animal death (not graphic, just mentioned)_

 _Rating may change in later chapters. I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **-Your Faith Was Strong But You Needed Proof-**

Molly walked in her front door and gratefully dropped her heavy bag to the floor as she kicked off her shoes. Most days she hated her job, but today was especially horrific. The office was short staffed, _again_ , and she was taking on the workload of at least four people. One of her favourite patients had died; his daughter had called to let her know. And that bitch Kasey had complained about her to HR. _What a twat._ There had been bad days at Barts, but she'd never felt like this: exhausted, yes, but never completely beaten down.

She tried not to dwell on it, since there was really no point. This was her life now, like it or not. _Tea, I need tea,_ she thought as she made her way to her kitchen. As she put the kettle on- _damnit, teapot..._ all this time and she still forgot. As she put the _teapot_ on the _stove_ her cell phone dinged, alerting her to an incoming text message.

 **Just checking in darling. How are we feeling today?**

Molly cringed as she gripped the device. She tried to fight down her rising panic while she thought of a response.

 **Are your ankles very swollen?**

"Why do you still torment me?" she spoke to her empty house. "I did as I was told."

 **Answer me or I'll do something you most definitely won't like.**

Molly drew a deep breath and typed her response. **Everything's fine. Not much swelling.**

The reply was almost instantaneous. **Good girl. Take good care of my package. Wouldn't want any nasty surprises, would we?**

Her stomach turned as she read the words. She decided to forget about the tea and take a long hot bath instead.

She felt her muscles relaxing and the tension of the day ebbing away as she ran her hands over her ever expanding belly.

 **-About ten months prior-**

" _Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"_

It was everywhere, on every screen in Barts. Molly rushed out of the hospital; she had no intention of taking the tube, not today. She managed to get a cab, how, she wasn't quite how sure since people were _actually_ panicking. It wasn't just the message over the airways, it seemed that there was a problem with mobile phone masts as well. She'd never seen that before: actual widespread panic. She had to get somewhere safe. Sherlock was gone and Jim was back. If Moriarty knew she'd helped Sherlock escape his fate three years before, she was as good as dead.

"Scotland Yard, please. Do you think you can make it with this traffic?" she asked the cabbie, really not looking at him at all. He grunted in response. They drove for a while and Molly kept trying to phone Greg. It was no good, she couldn't get a signal. She glanced up every once in awhile to see that, even though the traffic was thick, they were making headway. It seemed to be a strange route but she thought the cabbie was just avoiding the grid-lock. Before long Molly realised that they were nowhere near NSY. No, they were pulling up to Molly's flat.

"What the hell?" she said. "How did..."

The cabbie turned around, revealing himself... "Hey Doll! How ya been?" the man said as her blood ran cold.

A few minutes later Molly was in her lounge with James Moriarty. He sat in her favorite chair and she on her settee.

"What's wrong, love?" the madman asked.

Molly stared in disbelief. "Wh-what do you mean, what's wrong?"

"Well, you seem extremely nervous," he said matter-of-factly.

She couldn't stop the laugh that escaped. "What do you want with me?"

"Ah, down to business. I like it." He removed his cap and tossed it on the coffee table. "You owe me, ya see," he said with a smile, as if she was supposed to know what he meant.

"H-how do... what are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. "Right, you don't know everything. Okay, Sherlock, was to be sent off to his death today. He didn't tell you, did he? I'm rarely wrong about these things."

Molly's eyes started to fill with tears for the first time. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself and not break down in front of the psychopath. "You're lying," she whispered.

"Sorry Molls. Sherlock did a bad, bad thing. And his big brother was sending him into exile that would have led to his death, sooner or later." He leaned in and cupped a hand to his mouth. "Let me just emphasize _sooner_."

"Greg said a mission..."

James cut her off. "NO! He lied! He lied to all of you. Well, not to you, I suppose. He didn't even _think_ about you. Not even a kiss on the cheek this time."

The tears finally started to fall; she was helpless to stop them.

"After _all_ your hard work, _all_ the risks, fibbing to all your friends... when the end came, Molly Hooper, you meant nothing to him. _Nothing at all_ ," he spit out the last words with so much venom they caused her to flinch.

A sick sounding laugh came from him, then he said, "Tell me you're not surprised. Because despite everything, Molly, I always thought that you were intelligent. Don't tell me you actually believed him when he flattered you. What? Did he tell you that you were a part of his inner circle? Important… _valued_." He paused and stared at her while his words soaked in. "Well if so, clearly you were mistaken."

She stared at her coffee table and tried desperately to figure out if he was telling the truth. It had been months since Sherlock had spoken to her. He'd swept into the lab twice- three times maybe- since the drugs test. He'd barely acknowledged her, made eye contact once, and that only for a moment. Then there was that woman from the papers. He'd been engaged. Jim was right at least about one thing, he hadn't said goodbye, even if it _was_ just a mission. She thought they were friends- thought she meant something to him. That she counted in some small way.

Perhaps she was wrong.

She cleared her throat. "Why are you telling me all of this? And what do you mean, I owe you?"

"You owe me for today, obviously. He's back, I saved him. My little trick kept him from being sent off to God know where to be blown to smithereens." He paused, staring at her. "You're welcome by the way. All your hard work, all you dedication to him, it won't go to waste. He lives thanks to dear old Jim!" he said as he raised his hands high in the air.

Molly sighed. "O-kay. Th-thank you."

"That my dear Molly, isn't quite enough. I require repayment. And you must also pay for your _past_ sins. You know what I'm talking about, you naughty thing. Helping him escape my little trap." He shook his head. "Either you can pay or your precious Sherlock and all his little sheep can pay. What'll it be?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, her heart rate speeding up.

"You will leave London Town. England. Europe for that matter. You'll never contact Sherlock Holmes or any of his associates again. If you do as I ask, I'll halt the game. Leave him alone. No buildings will blow up. No one goes flying off of rooftops. No strategically place snipers." He leaned forward. "However, if you don't do as I say, I have a whole set of semtex vests for the DI, the old woman, Mommy and Daddy Holmes, the Watsons, even a teeny-tiny one for the wee babe, when it comes. I will spare you the details of what I have planned for your beloved, don't want to spoil _all_ the fun. What'd you say?" He leaned back and smiled. "Leave this life behind - this life where the man you love doesn't give two shits about you whatsoever - and save a whole bunch of lives in the process. Or stay here and watch all of Sherlock's family and friends die. I'll save him for last, ya know. _Make him watch_ ," he said with terrifying snarl. Then his tone changed once again. "And you will live, Molly. Live with the knowledge that you could have stopped it." The amount of sheer joy in his voice was utterly disgusting.

Molly hadn't moved during his speech, she'd could barely breathe. Just then her mobile rang, making her jump. She looked down at it. "It's John," she said, shocked that her vocal cords were working.

"Course it is. I fixed the cell phone masts just so they could contact you and keep the noble doctor from running over here." He laughed. "You didn't think it'd be _him_ did you? Well answer it and explain that you're fine, safe and sound at home. Doors locked. There's no need to check on you."

She took a deep breath and answered, "Hi John."

" _Molly, thank God. You saw the broadcast I assume?"_

"Oh yeah. Um, I came home, of course. Freaked me out. But I double bolted my door. I'm fine." She was trying her best to keep her voice normal, but was afraid she was failing.

" _Look Molly, if he wants to come after you..."_ John was cut off by Sherlock's voice.

" _Molly! Do you still have the handgun I gave you when I left on the mission?"_ he frantically rattled off.

She couldn't speak. Her throat closed up as she looked at Jim pleadingly. He looked back at her with venom in his eyes. She found her strength. "Y-yes, Sherlock. I- I still have it."

" _Good, make sure it's loaded. I'll come check on you as soon as I have things under control here, understand?"_

"I'll be fine. Just take care of this... whatever it is, okay?" she said, trying even harder to sound controlled and calm.

" _Keep your doors locked,"_ he said before ringing off.

She said 'Goodbye Sherlock' even though there was no one on the other end.

Moriarty beamed. "Well done, Moll Doll." He paused and looked at her with utter contentment on his face for a moment then he finally spoke, "You really do love him, don't you?"

Molly nodded as James got up and walked over to her. "W-will I ever see him again?" she asked, looking up at the madman.

Moriarty gently stroked her cheeks, wet with tears. "No, you won't. But he'll live. Once again, because of your sacrifice Sherlock Holmes and his friends live, while Molly Hooper suffers." He crouched down so that he was eye level with the weeping pathologist.

"Can I bring please Toby?" she begged..

He shook his head. "No," he said stroking her cheeks with both hands. "I already killed him."

* * *

Jim visited Molly frequently after she settled into her small house in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He had set her up with a job as a medical assistant. She had a new identity, Mary Carpenter. He seemed so pleased with himself at his first visit. She thought he was just happy that he had won, that had gotten her to leave her home and friends and Sherlock. The real meaning behind his smug little smiles wouldn't reveal itself for about three months, when Molly realised she was somehow pregnant.

Jim had been a busy little consulting criminal, though. He spent each and every visit poisoning Molly Hooper. Oh, not with chemicals or drugs. Not with plants or concoctions. No, he poisoned Molly with words. He poisoned Molly with lies. He cut Molly Hooper open from the inside out. But she had nowhere to run, she had no choice but to listen as Jim told her over and over again how useless she _really_ was. How no one cared that she had left without a trace. How not a soul in London missed her. Least of all… Sherlock Holmes.

And after a while, Molly Hooper started to believe him.

* * *

 _Okay, I'm really dying to hear from you. Please drop me a line. I am working on my other WIPs. I haven't forgotten or abandoned them. Thank you so much for reading. I will update very soon. ~Lil~_


	2. The Baffled King

_First off thank you for all the favs, follows, subscriptions, kudos, reviews and comments. It means so much. Guests, I wish I could respond but I promise your questions will be answered. I know things look bleak right now, but hold on, this story moves pretty fast. Once again thanks to MizJoely for her beta work and constant support. Also to MrsMCrieff for Brit answers and listening to me whinge. Please don't forget, any mistakes are all mine!_

 _I know everyone wants to know about Molly's pregnancy, but I can't say anything without spoiling the whole story. Sorry. If you are worried, please PM me. I will speak privately about it to some extent. I promise to add the appropriate warnings if and when necessary. _

_**Warnings**_ _: More talk about Toby's death (again, nothing graphic)_

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **-The Baffled King -**

 _31st October - London, UK (nearly eleven months after the broadcast)_

John Watson was worried - no, he was _terrified_ for his friend. They'd heard nothing from James Moriarty whatsoever, and the silence was deafening. What was worse, what was making everyone a just a little bit crazy, was Molly Hooper's disappearance. It's not like she'd simply moved away, she'd dropped off the face of the bloody earth.

It was quite sobering when even Mycroft Holmes couldn't locate a person. The day that the older Holmes informed John that he'd called off his dogs, had been… trying, to say the least.

When John and Sherlock went to her flat the day after the broadcast they found it empty, completely empty, except for a note addressed to the detective. John thought, at first glance, that she'd finally had enough of Sherlock's bad behavior. Molly had the patience of Job, but surely it wasn't infinite.

He stood back and watched as Sherlock read the letter, shoved it into his pocket then asked John to call Greg and get forensics to go over the flat. Then said that he was taking a walk. _A walk?_ What the hell?

John didn't see the man for the rest of the day. To say that he was concerned would be a massive understatement. Sherlock showed up at John's house at four in the morning, rambling about Moriarty and Molly, saying that she'd been abducted. He shouted, he broke a dining chair (though John didn't think it was on purpose), then he ran back out into the night. His mobile rang immediately and he was informed by Mycroft that he had someone following his little brother and that John should get some sleep, it was going to be a long couple of days.

 _A couple of days_... that was laughable.

Since then there had been bad days and _really_ bad days. On bad days Sherlock would obsess about Molly and Moriarty. He'd rant about her disappearance coinciding with the broadcast. He'd call his brother, he'd call Greg, he'd shoot the wall (how he kept getting a hold of guns, John couldn't figure out). The fact that the consulting criminal had made no contact whatsoever seemed only to enrage Sherlock more. He was convinced it was not a coincidence. No one could tell him otherwise.

John wasn't sure _what_ he believed. They had a note; though he'd not seen it, Greg told him it was in Molly's handwriting and it had told Sherlock goodbye. That she was basically tired of his shit, she was leaving and didn't want him to try to find her. Though Greg did admit it contained information that even _he_ hadn't been privy to prior to reading it and John found that suspicious. Greg didn't elaborate, so he didn't push.

The one thing that caused John the most concern, was how completely Molly had disappeared. This was way above her skill-set. This was... well, it was frightening. Beyond hiring someone like Sherlock or (though he hated to admit it) Mary, he didn't have a clue how Molly Hooper, innocent- unassuming, Molly Hooper- could have pulled it off. Then doubt would creep in, reminding him that she'd managed to lie to him- to everyone- for two years. _Not so innocent then_ … _No!_ No he couldn't- _wouldn't-_ believe that Molly could be in cahoots with that bastard! Besides, if that was the case wouldn't Moriarty be rubbing it in Sherlock's face? It certainly was his style.

On _really_ bad days Sherlock would retreat inside himself, he'd disappear. John would have no hope of reaching him. He would busy himself by attempting to clean the flat and hover around just in case his friend resurfaced. Through all of this, John had become a father. He had a beautiful baby girl, Annabelle. His time was divided between home, work and tending to his best friend. At times he felt like he was losing his mind.

At least one good thing had come from that broadcast. It had served to remind Mycroft's bosses (John was almost shocked to find out that Mycroft indeed _had_ bosses) that Sherlock Holmes was of better use to England home than abroad. A 'pardon' of sorts was arranged. Though John knew none of the details and frankly, he didn't want to. He was shocked that Mycroft manged it since Moriarty's momentary image was the only proof they had that he was 'back'.

When they were very, very lucky Sherlock would take a case. But only if he had some suspicion that it could be connected to Moriarty. Then it was right back to obsession or depression.

Today had been a very bad day, one in a long string of bad days. Sherlock hadn't spoken for hours, hadn't eaten since John had arrived. He didn't look like he'd slept in days. John had tried several times to get him to go to bed or take a shower, but he wasn't even making eye contact anymore, so the doctor decided to head home. There was only so much he could do. Mycroft had the flat watched, constantly. He would get in touch with John if Sherlock tried to sneak out. The fact that John had yet to come in to find his best friend half out of his mind on smack was some kind of bloody miracle.

Just as he put on his jacket he heard, "How's my goddaughter?"

John turned to see Sherlock's eyes refocused, looking in his general direction, though not _at_ him exactly. "Ah, good," he answered.

"Will you have more?"

"Sorry?" John slowly walked back toward his friend.

"More children. Molly was an only child. No family. Hardly any friends. An easy mark. Then I painted a target on her back." He was still not looking at John.

"Sherlock, we don't know..."

Sherlock waved him off. "Not tonight John. We both know what happened to Molly Hooper."

"But the note..."

"It means nothing!" he snapped.

"Then why won't you let me see it?"

"I let Lestrade see it! And didn't get it back for three days!" He took a gasping breath and finally looked John in the eyes. "It's all I have. A bunch of... _lies_ on a piece of paper. That's all that's left of her."

"When did you last sleep?" John questioned.

Sherlock shook his head dismissively.

"Why won't you let me see the note?" John asked again.

"Because it was addressed to me!" he growled.

Silence descended upon 221B Baker Street. Sherlock once again stared off into nowhere, so John sat down and waited. He wasn't about to leave after Sherlock's outburst. He'd have to wait this one out.

Forty-five minutes later he was starting to doze when Sherlock spoke again. "I missed her while I was gone, but not like this."

John opened his eyes, but didn't dare speak.

"I thought about her... constantly. But it didn't feel like this, because I knew she was safe. Mycroft told me she was safe. People aren't supposed to love me, John. It hurts them. It destroys them. I'm like poison."

"I think you should get some sleep, mate."

"She'll hate me by now. I'm sure. Look at how I've failed her."

John got up and walked over to his exhausted friend. "Come on." He took him by the arm and helped him to his feet.

"She saved my life, John. _My worthless life_. And I let him take her."

"You're not worthless," John said as he guided the detective to his bedroom.

"What if he's hurting her? She's so small."

"Molly Hooper's tough, Sherlock."

Sherlock managed a small laugh. "That she is. She slapped me."

John laughed at the memory as well. "Yeah, she did." They got to the bedroom and the doctor helped him out of his dressing gown, then sat him on the edge of the bed.

"And she's got nice tits!" he said as he kicked off his shoes, causing John to laugh even harder.

"Yes, there's no denying that."

Sherlock stopped laughing abruptly. "Do you tell Mary that you love her John?"

The sudden shift in conversation threw the doctor, and he had to shake himself before answering. "Ah, yeah. Sure, sometimes. Why?"

When Sherlock's eyes shifted to John's, he was shocked to see them shining with unshed tears. "So many things I..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

Thinking he'd missed something, John crouched down in front of his best friend. "What are you talking about?"

" _So_ many things..."

"Do... do you love her, Sherlock? Do you love Molly?" He was certain that his friend did feel affection for the missing woman, that much was obvious. He'd always assumed it was something akin to friendship, paired with a feeling of debt for her help with the Fall. But now he felt as if he'd missed something _extremely_ important.

"See? Poison. It's all I am." Sherlock laid his head down on his pillow and passed out.

John stood frozen for a moment before making a decision. Then he took out his phone and went into the sitting room.

"Hey, Mary. I'm on my way home. He finally fell asleep, God only knows how long he'll be out."

" _Is he okay?_ " his wife asked.

"Mary, I love you." He didn't like the desperation he heard in his own voice, but the last year had taken a toll on the army doctor.

" _Are_ you _okay_?"

"Sure, yeah. I'm fine," John said, trying to sound stronger than he felt.

" _I love you too. John, do you think I could bring Anna over tomorrow_?"

"That might help, he asked about her tonight... I love you."

" _You said that already_ ," Mary said with a sad laugh.

"I know... it's just..."

" _Come home John_."

* * *

Sherlock slept and dreamed of Molly. She was home and safe. He saw her walking down the pavement in front of Barts, laughing, just being her lovely self. The dream changed, and she was in Baker Street, crying. She looked lonely and sad. She was shaking her head at him and Sherlock felt helpless and scared. She was begging for something, something he couldn't give her. He didn't even know what it was.

Suddenly he was on the rooftop and so was James.

"Oh, look. Here we are again," the madman said.

"Where's Molly?" Sherlock asked.

"Who? Oh, yes the broken little mouse. I hope you're happy with yourself, by the way. I was content to leave her alone, but you had to drag her into the game. Had to show your hand. Your... _heart_." His face changed into some kind of monster and he lunged toward Sherlock but he stopped and changed back, laughing. "Molly's mine now Sherlock. It's actually sad that you still care. What happened to the hard-hearted detective I so loved to play with? You doomed her, you know." Moriarty shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away, shaking his head.

"Wait! What can I do?" Sherlock called out. "How do I get her back? Can I jump? I'll do it this time, I will. Let me jump!"

Moriarty turned around. "You'll jump?" He doubled over laughing. "You fool!" he said once he composed himself. "I won! She's gone and you're broken! What more could I possibly want?"

Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat, sheet bunched around his chest. He lay there for a few minutes, panting and fighting back tears. When he dreamed, he always dreamed of Molly, of Moriarty. This was nothing new. Dreams were simply a manifestation of one's subconscious. Of course he felt responsible for Molly's disappearance, how could he not? It didn't mean he would stop trying to find her. He jumped out of bed. He needed a shower.

Twenty-five minutes later he walked out into the front room, clean, freshly shaved and dressed in actual clothes. _Now what_? he wondered. He never used to wonder about his day. He was always focused on finding a case- solving a puzzle. But the unsolvable puzzle of the disappearing pathologist currently occupied his entire mind palace.

He went to the kitchen to make coffee. Mrs. Hudson had been avoiding him lately. He couldn't exactly blame her; he'd been a bit hard to handle these last few months. As he made himself a cup, a familiar pit formed in his stomach.

 _I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?_

He heard it as if she was standing right next to him. The familiar lilt of her voice. It was hopeful and nervous and so bloody sweet. He put the mug in the sink, took a deep breath as he moved to the sitting room and walked to the window. He suddenly remembered the day she'd arrived to assist him with cases. He had stood in the same spot and watched as she approached 221B.

She had walked, no cabs for Molly Hooper. She could have afforded it of course, but she was far too frugal. The image slowed down in his mind and he focused in on the pink and black scarf around her neck. She stopped and spoke to a boy on the street. He was thin and dirty, looked about ten years old. Molly searched in her enormous bag and pulled out some money, then gave it to him with a warm smile before knocking on the front door. He shut the memory down at that point.

Sherlock Holmes had experienced pain, physical pain, on many occasions. He'd been shot, brutally beaten, he'd jumped from a four story building for God's sake. But the emotional pain he was experiencing from the loss of Molly Hooper manifested into a sort of physical ache. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt in his life. His own pain he could handle. The pain of someone so kind, so innocent... it was like a death. A slow, tortuous, death.

He opened a drawer on his desk and reverently picked up piece of paper, then carefully unfolded it.

 _Sherlock,_

 _I'm leaving. Don't try to find me. Just this once respect me, please. I know the truth. I know that you were going away forever and didn't even tell me goodbye. Don't try to figure out how I know, I just do. This knowledge, more than all the insults, all the manipulations, proves how little I mean to you. So just forget about me, I know you can. Delete me, Sherlock. I was never important enough to take up much space in that great mind of yours anyway._

 _I hope you know that I did love you. I did. Even when you didn't deserve it. I loved you._

 _Goodbye Sherlock Holmes._

 _Molly Hooper_

Those weren't Molly's words. Though there was some truth in what she was saying, most of it was a lie. She didn't talk like that. Not to mention the words _loved_ and _did_ appeared more ragged; the ink was darker, her hand shakier. Clearly the entire letter was written under duress, as evident from her penmanship and the tear-stained paper.

How many times had he read it? Dozens? Hundreds? Which was very unlike him, since he had it memorized and stored in his mind, filed under other important facts surrounding her disappearance... though there weren't many. The phone call to Mike Stamford. She had said she was moving away, that she didn't have a forwarding address yet. Her landlord had been paid in cash for the remainder of her lease, four months, by Molly herself. Her cat was dead. Toby was found in the dumpster behind her building. Moriarty had obviously killed Toby as a means of intimidation and to sever all physical ties, but it must have devastated her. She loved that cat. His body was the only real evidence they had. Though the cause of death was poisoning James had been smart, of course, and used a household cleaner to murder poor Toby. It could have been seen as an accident, though he knew it wasn't. Her furniture had been given to a local charity by some unnamed man. No security cameras. Useless. The volunteer, who had handled the transaction, gave them a vague description of the man that got them nowhere. None of her other friends had been contacted. No notes for Meena and Caroline or John and Mary. Nothing for Lestrade. _Only him._

He carefully put away the letter, then picked up his violin and sat down in his chair. _Where are you Molly? What is he doing to you?_ He closed his eyes as he plucked at the strings of his instrument. It was a puzzle, plain and simple. But it wasn't, was it? There were no clues. No game.

He had no idea how long he'd been in his mind palace, but he came out to find Mrs. Hudson leaving a tray of sandwiches and tea next to him.

"Oh, I see you're back," the older woman said, looking a bit weary.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Eat something, Sherlock. Everyone's worried." She was edging her way out the door. "Oh, and a courier delivered a package for you. It's on your desk. I tried to tell you when I came in..."

Sherlock jumped up and grabbed the unmarked envelope. "Go. Leave. Now!"

The woman just huffed as she left the room.

Sherlock closely inspected the outside of the envelope. _Plain manila, no writing, no marks whatsoever._ He smelled it. _Nothing but Mrs. Hudson's over-priced perfume and deodorant, she must have held it under her arm as she carried it up with my tea._ _Someone went to great lengths to make sure it was untraceable, not shocking._

Then he carefully opened it.

It contained a single photograph of Molly Hooper. Only it didn't look like Molly Hooper. Her hair was cut to her shoulders and dyed red. She was in dark gray scrubs and a long black coat. She had a very unpleasant look on her face. Oh, and she was looked about seven months pregnant. On the back of the photo there was four words. _Mary Carpenter -_ _Bethlehem, Pa._

 _She's pregnant... what did he do to her? Did he..?_

Rage was boiling over in Sherlock's mind, it was consuming him. But he couldn't let it. No, because the game was finally on.

* * *

 _I want to say something before I get comments about drugs or the lack there of: I know, logically speaking (especially having seen TAB) that I could have had Sherlock strung out like mad to deal with Molly's disappearance, but I chose not to. I have my reasons, both as a writer and from personal experience. I agree that the show writer's version of Sherlock might have reacted this way (possibly) but mine did not and would not. It wouldn't have worked with the plot moving forward and it brings up certain issues for me personally. I completely respect anyone that might feel that it's a more realistic reaction, but I went a different direction._

 _Okay, enough with that serious stuff... what do you think? Jim and Sherlock? What's gonna happen? Thanks for reading. ~Lil~_


	3. Love Is Not A Victory March

_As always, thank you all for your support. LOVE hearing from each and every one of you. Special thanks to Bekah1218 for answering some pregnancy questions for this chapter (yes, I have children, but she's an expert!) Of course thanks go to MizJoely the, wise and wonderful, for all her betaing expertise and patience. If you find any mistakes, however, they belong to me!_

 _No warnings this time, other than creepy Jim (but that's not new, I didn't come up with the concept!) and extreme feels._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **\- Love Is Not A Victory March -**

 _November 1st - Bethlehem, Pa_

Molly left her ultrasound appointment and headed for the grocery store. She needed milk, tea, toothpaste and a few other necessities. As she turned the engine off the passenger door opened.

"Hey Mary!" Jim said as he sat down. "Let's go for a ride!"

Molly sighed and tossed her purse in the backseat. "Where are we going?"

"Let's drive around and look at all the decorations. Americans are crazy for this shit. It's not even Halloween anymore and look..." He pointed to the store front with jack-o-lanterns and ghosts still adorning the windows. "...they haven't taken anything down yet."

"It's only been a day," she replied.

"Yeah, but they also have Christmas decorations up." he said, looking out the window. "Poor confused bastards."

Molly drove for about ten minutes before Jim started talking. "Gettin' close aren't we?"

She suddenly remembered what the tech as told her about preparing herself. ' _You're just about to pop, sweetie. Hope you have everything ready. It could really be any day. Although first pregnancies tend to go over the due date, if you want my opinion your little one will be here soon.'_ Molly _didn't_ want her opinion; she wanted this nightmare to be over. However she knew this was just the beginning.

Deciding to avoid that conversation as long as possible she feigned ignorance. "Close to where? You didn't say where you wanted to go," she replied in a flat voice.

"No cheek, Mary. I'm talking about the little bun, and you know it." He patted her belly.

She didn't even flinch, not anymore. He often touched, rubbed, patted her expanding stomach during his visits. It still made her skin crawl, but she didn't react anymore.

"How'd the appointment go?"

"Fine, everything's... fine." She'd anticipated the question. A lot of his visits coincided with her doctor's appointments or ultrasounds.

"Pick out a name yet?"

"No."

"Mary, most women are quite excited at this point. Aren't you nesting?" he asked in a teasing voice.

Molly had learned not to argue, not to engage him. The physical intimidation had long since halted. Lately he just kept reminding her what he _could_ do, what was at stake and, of course, how pointless she was otherwise. Her only use was that she kept him away from Sherlock and his _flock_ , as he often referred to them.

"I _am_ excited, Jim. Just tired."

"Let's get you home, Mary. It won't be long now. I already had your groceries delivered, so there's no need to go shopping."

They were at a stoplight when Molly finally looked over at the psychopath. He looked so incredibly pleased with himself. The strangest smile on his face, his black eyes shining more than usual.

"Why are you so happy?" She knew it was a mistake. She knew she shouldn't have said a word. But his moods terrified her and she had to know what had caused his sudden gleefulness.

"Sherlock's caught a case," he said turning to her.

She gripped the steering wheel tightly. "What do you mean? Y-you pr-promised..."

"There's only one thing that could ever make you interesting, Molly. And that's me. Aren't you glad that we met?" He put his hand on her belly again and whispered, "You should be thanking me."

Molly shivered. He hadn't used her real name since they'd left London.

* * *

Sherlock and John rode while Greg drove through the town of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Sherlock hadn't spoken at all on the flight, just played with his phone, and had only given curt answers since the airport. When John had arrived at Baker Street the day before, his former flat mate had been alight with energy, more than he'd seen in nearly a year. In the months since Molly's departure, Sherlock had gone through periods of manic behaviour, but this time he was focused and intent. He was making plans, talking on the phone and typing on his laptop all at the same time. He barked out orders to John and Mrs. Hudson as he ran from room to room picking up items, packing and drinking coffee. He was almost, _almost_ the Sherlock of old.

Greg drove and John manned the SATNAV, or 'GPS' as the pimply faced kid at the rental counter had corrected when John requested it. The doctor was deeply grateful that the Detective Inspector had demanded to come with them on the trip (at Mycroft Holmes' request, no doubt) but he was here, and that was all that mattered. Sherlock needed as much support as possible, and Molly most likely would need them even more.

They knew very little about 'Mary Carpenter'. She appeared to be living, of her own accord, in this moderately sized American town. She was employed at a local hospital as a medical assistant in the cancer center and she seemed to be free to come and go at her leisure. Mycroft had been able to get them _some_ information as Sherlock prepared for the trip, but not much. Where James Moriarty fit into the equation, John didn't know and if Sherlock had it figured out, he wasn't sharing.

John and Greg both tried to engage Sherlock on the drive from the airport, tried to get him to share his 'plan', if he indeed he had one. Which he most likely did. After the third request for information he barked out, "Of course I have a plan, John. Don't be an idiot."

"Care to share that plan with us, Sherlock?" John had asked.

"I plan a very slow and very painful death for James Moriarty. That's all you need to know," Sherlock said before turning to look out the window.

The electronic voice alerted them to turn one more time, then suddenly they were pulling up to a small, light blue house on an unassuming street.

As the SUV rolled to a stop Sherlock was already getting out and running up to the front door. John followed, trying to both yell and whisper his friend's name at the same time, but the man would have nothing of it. He was knocking on the door before John or Greg could stop him. They both caught up before it opened, though. When it finally did, sure enough a very pregnant, very ginger, robe-clad Molly Hooper answered.

Then she lost it.

"No! NO! You... you can't be here! I left. I left so... _NO!_ " she screamed as she backed away from the three men, then tried to shut the door. But Sherlock easily held it open, stepping inside the house.

John inched closer as well, cautiously. "Molly, you have to calm down... your condition..."

"Get out!" she yelled, trying to look out the door behind them.

Greg stepped in fully and shut it. "Molls, it's okay, we're here now. You're gonna be fine."

"No! No! You have to go! You have to leave before..." She kept backing away from the group of men.

She looked just about as terrified as anyone John had ever seen. He was suddenly even more concerned about what the bastard had done to her. His mind flooded with horrific possibilities. He felt sick.

Sherlock walked toward her slowly. "Molly, what did he threaten you with? My death? John and Mary's? Their child? What? How is he keeping you here?"

She turned her back on them and walked over to a small chair, clutching the back of it tightly as the three men exchanged worried looks. Suddenly a great sob escaped from the woman.

John and Greg rushed to her, flanking her as she started to collapse. She was crying as she spoke, most of the words unintelligible, but John made out: _I left, kill you all,_ and _I don't count_. She seemed to be saying that over and over: _don't count, don't count._ He looked back to see where his best friend was during Molly's breakdown. Sherlock was standing with his back against the wall, his hands fisted at his sides, his normally pale skin somehow even whiter; John could have sworn that he was trembling. When they made eye contact, Sherlock shook his head and John watched as he gathered his composure. That was when he felt a sudden splash on his shoes.

"No! Not now! Molly screeched. "Oh God, no!"

"Molly." John took her face in his hands. "You have to calm down, you're in labour. You're what, about thirty, thirty-two weeks? We need to get you to hospital."

It worked she seemed to calm down, at least a bit. "Thirty-nine."

 _Shit, she's small_. "Do you have a bag?" he asked.

"In... in my bedroom... just d-down the hall, first door on the left." She took a deep breath. "It's yellow," she added.

John looked at Greg; with a nod, the older man took off.

"You'll want to change clothes, yeah? Don't want to go to hospital in just your dressing gown." John said, still gently stroking her face. "And we need to phone your doctor."

"John?" she said in a desperate tone.

"Yes, Molly?"

"What did you... um, call the b-baby? Is sh-she beautiful... Is she blonde? I picture her blonde." Tears were streaming down her face.

"Annabelle Marie. We call her Anna, Molly. She's gorgeous. And very much blonde." Then he kissed her forehead and held her close while she sobbed.

* * *

The trip to the hospital was a harrowing affair. Molly continued to cry and refuse to explain anything about Moriarty, her forced relocation or her pregnancy. She just held onto John's hand and squeezed whenever a contraction hit. Sherlock stopped asking questions when John snapped that he wasn't helping and that Molly needed calm for what she was about to do. Sherlock never took his eyes off of her, though. He turned his body so he was angled in such a way that he could see her the entire way there.

"You're doing great, Molly," John said, pulling her attention away from the window back to the occupants of the car.

Molly turned to see Sherlock. "Why are you staring at me?" she asked in an aggravated tone.

"I'm not allowed to ask anymore questions..." he started.

"Still have to gather clues though, don't you? Always working." Bitterness dripped from her mouth.

"What do you mean?"

"He said that..." She looked back to the window. "He wasn't wrong."

Sherlock studied her for a long moment. "Wrong about what, Molly? What did he tell you?"

She didn't respond. Another contraction hit her and she squeezed John's hand tighter.

"It's gonna be all right, Molly." John turned to Sherlock. "Leave it," he demanded.

"He filled her head full of lies and I'm just supposed to leave it?"

John tried to give Sherlock his best glare and said, "Yeah, for now."

* * *

When they arrived at the hospital Molly was taken to a birthing suite. John followed while Greg and Sherlock found coffee and a couple of semi comfortable chairs close by.

As soon as John stepped out of the suite, Sherlock stood up. The army doctor took off his coat and tossed it on the chair next to Greg. "They're prepping her. She's refusing an epidural. Stubborn to the core," he said as he started pacing. He looked at his best friend. "You," He grabbed Sherlock's lapel. "We're talking now! Come and get us if anything happens," he shot back at Greg as he dragged Sherlock down the hall to an empty room.

He shoved him through the door, then planted his hands on his hips. "We've got minutes. How do you feel about Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock adjusted his coat, ran his hand through his hair then made an attempt to laugh. "What? That's your question, John? It's the wrong one!"

"Yes, Sherlock that's my sodding question. How do you feel about her? I need to know right now, before all hell breaks loose. She's been through… God knows what she's been through." He paused, taking a deep breath. "This long game he's played... He's using emotions and feelings against you. Something- I'm sorry- but you know _nothing_ about. So, how do you feel about Molly Hooper? Quickly!"

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed. The room was silent for, well, far too long for John's liking. Finally the detective spoke.

"When did you know you loved Mary, John?"

"What?"

"When did you know that you were in love with your wife?"

John looked at his best friend. Sherlock's head was down, his shoulders slumped. He looked beaten. "Um, our third date, I think. Yeah. Why?"

Sherlock stood up and paced across the room. "I knew..." He shook his head. "I fell in love with Molly Hooper at our first meeting. Greg brought me in to look body. I'd been clean for about seven months. We'd been working together for a few weeks and he said he needed my help, that he was stuck. He took me to Barts and told me not make the new pathologist cry." He took a deep breath and suddenly seemed lost in memories. "God, I'd never seen anyone so... so radiant in my entire life. She was so unabashedly happy. It was sickening. It should have repulsed me." He walked to the window, his back to John. "She was so lovely. So young and full of life; untouched by the ugliness of the world. Bright, intelligent, unintentionally charming. No guile whatsoever. I deduced her in my head, but didn't say a word out loud. I couldn't say what I saw, because what I usually saw simply wasn't there. I only saw beauty." His last words came out in a whisper.

He turned back around, put his hands in his pockets. "That had never happened to me before, John. When I see a person I see the their mistakes, their flaws. I see what they had for breakfast. I see who they're sleeping with- who they _want_ to be sleeping with. When I first saw Molly Hooper, I only saw _her_... and she was perfect." He laughed mirthlessly. "Married to my work... chemical defect... All that rubbish. Utter shite when it comes to her... I've always loved her, John. I've always tried to keep her safe. Safe from _me_. It was unfathomably selfish of me to involve her in my fake death. But I wanted... I needed her to know that I was alive, that I'd survived. I know how insulting that sounds, John. I know..." He was looking down at the floor.

"Not now, Sherlock. Later," John said waving him off.

The detective looked up. "I've almost slipped a few other times. When I came back... I'd... missed her so much. I told her how much she mattered to me. But I disguised my confession. Made it seem like I was referring to Moriarty and the Fall. I damn near said something else though."

The room was silent for a while.

"Why?" John asked. "Why not tell her? You could be with her, be happy."

"Because I'm poison. I kill the good in people. I couldn't watch the good in Molly Hooper die."

"That's not..."

" _Don't_. She's broken and pregnant because of me. He did this... this, _whatever_ he did, to get to _me_. He hurt her because of _me_. Don't try to tell me I was wrong, John. If Mary would be better off without you, you'd leave her in a heartbeat. You're a much better man that I've ever been, I know you'd make that decision."

John thought. Of course Sherlock was right. He'd leave Mary if it was best for her, for Anna. But...

"She loves you, Sherlock."

He looked up and John saw utter devastation in his friend's eyes. "Not anymore," he whispered sounding completely broken. Then he rushed up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "You have to go find out what he's done. What he said to her. She's compromised right now, she'll be easier to talk to."

"That's fucking cruel!" John spit back. "She's the woman you love for God's sake!

"Exactly! That's why I need to know!"

"You haven't deduced anything?"

He released the doctor. "Not enough. I need her to tell us, before he makes his next move."

John straightened his jumper. "Fine, I need to get back in there. But this conversation isn't over. You need to talk to her. YOU! She deserves to know the truth." Then he turned and stalked out of the room.

* * *

 _Well, that was a bit emotional. Hope you liked it. Much more to come. Drop me a line and tell me how I'm doing... please! Oh and thanks for reading! ~Lil~_


	4. How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You

_I can't thank you enough for reading this story. I know it's not my normal light, fluff-filled smut, but you're all sticking with me, and it means so much! You all have amazing questions, and we will get some answers in this chapter. HUGE thanks to MizJoely for betaing this and for her constant encouragement. Thanks also to Bekah1218 for help with the medical bits and bobs. Remember the mistakes belong to me!_

 _ **Warnings:**_ _There is some canon typical violence here and, of course, Molly's in labor, but I didn't get graphic with it (I was a mere bystander in the births of my children since they were both c-sections.) Also, Jim's not very pleasant._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy. ~Lil~_

* * *

 **\- How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You -**

John steadied himself before returning to Molly's room. He knocked and entered after hearing a subdued _come in_ from the woman herself. "Hey Molls. They have you all set up, I see." She was alone, no doctors or nurses. He found that a bit strange.

She nodded.

"Listen..."

"He sent you in to collect information," she interrupted, her voice flat and emotionless.

"Molly, I don't know what Moriarty told you, but Sherlock _does_ care. He's been out of his mind with worry."

She turned to John. The look on her face was like nothing he'd ever seen on the perpetually happy young woman. It wasn't even the look of utter rage she had the day she'd run Sherlock's drugs test. It was defeat, it was disappointment, it was disgust. "I'm a case, John. You forget that I know how he is when he's on a case. I've become a puzzle to solve. Once he figures it out I'll be just as unimportant as I always was." She turned her face away once again. "Don't be a fool, John. I mean nothing to him."

 _Dear God, these two idiots,_ he thought as he tried to come up with the right words to convince Molly that she was wrong. If he told her the truth right now, she'd never believe him. Jim had done far too good a job of convincing her otherwise. He tried to remember everything he'd learned in med school during his psych rotation and in the army about brainwashing. It wasn't much.

"Molly, you're a smart woman. Don't you think it's possible that you believing all that Moriarty fed you is part of his plan?"

She still wasn't looking at him when she spoke. "He didn't say goodbye."

"What?"

Turning to face him once again she said, "He didn't say goodbye to me when he was leaving to go into exile. I had to find out from our resident psychopath. See? I don't matter. If he really cared about me, he would have at least told me. I'd barely seen him in the months leading up to… what he did. Jim told me by the way. He told me that Sherlock killed that newspaper man to keep something secret. He wouldn't tell me what the secret was."

Every good lie is built on the truth and Sherlock had been at least _trying_ to keep Molly at arm's length for years. Even though he hadn't mentioned it, John was certain that his friend would have been more cautious with Magnussen in the picture. As for not saying goodbye, well, John doubted there had been an opportunity to contact _anyone_ before boarding that plane. Neither he nor Mary had heard from their best friend prior to getting the call from Mycroft about the mission. He and Sherlock had never really talked about it after Molly's disappearance; that seemed to take precedence over everything in their lives, for the most part.

"Molly, Sherlock needs to explain some things- a lot of things actually. But he just told me that he talked to you when he came back. He told you..."

She interrupted him with a scoff. "That I mattered? So who do I believe, John? The psychopath or the sociopath? Was Sherlock just using me… _again_? Was he sweet-talking me, ensuring that I'd always be available to do his bidding? Do you have any idea how tired I am of being manipulated, John?" Just then another contraction hit and she grabbed for his hand. "Damnit, this hurts!" She grunted and breathed through the pain.

When it finally subsided John asked one more question. "Did he... did Moriarty..."

"If I was raped I don't remember it. No more questions, John. I need ice chips."

As he stepped out into the hallway and stopped the first nurse he saw for ice chips, Sherlock jumped up and started bombarding him with questions. He relayed everything he could, which wasn't much, as a PCA handed him a cup of chipped ice. Sherlock started flinging more questions at John for him to ask Molly. "Look, I'm done! She needs to concentrate on having this baby and _you_ need to think about what I told you." He turned and headed back inside the suite. The doctor had arrived while he was gone.

He looked up from the end of the bed. "And who is this? A birthing partner?"

"John, Richard, my doctor. Richard, John, my… well he's John. You have my chips?" Molly asked.

"Yeah, of course." He spooned some into her mouth.

The doctor removed his gloves. "Almost there Mary. Very soon, I'd say. You're already..." He started to stand up when the door opened and James Moriarty walked in, followed by first Sherlock and a black suited man holding a gun to his head, then Greg in the exact same position.

"Well, looks like it's time for the big show!" Jim clapped his hands together. "Stay where you are, doctor. This isn't exactly what I had planned, but I can work with it. I _am_ adaptable, after all."

"What the hell?" Richard gasped.

"Hold on, before we begin." Moriarty walked over and pressed a few buttons on the electronic keypad that locked and unlocked the door. "There, much better,. Wouldn't want any interruptions," he said, taking his position in the middle of the room. "Hangin' in there, Mary?" he asked looking at Molly as she trembled. "All the players have arrived... the stage is set." He was so happy; it was repulsive. "Well, now that we're all settled in and sorted..." He looked across the whole room expectantly. "Come on! Harry Potter? Goblet of Fire?" He looked up at his goons and they started laughing. "Forget it. I pay you, it's not the same."

"What's going on? This woman is about to give birth," Richard once again spoke up.

"Listen... Richard, right? John won't like it if he has to compete with another heroic doctor. That's _his_ job. So just sit there and catch the wee babe when he comes out. Got it?"

He turned to John. "You'll stay by Mary's side in case she needs anything. After all, you're experienced in the area of _doting father_ , certainly more so than me or Sherly. That'll mean more later." He winked.

"What the hell are you talking about?" John asked.

Jim walked closer to the former army doctor. "You're so dull, you know that John?"

"You sick bastard."

"Let me guess, you think I raped our little Mary here?" He looked at Sherlock. "See? Dull."

"No, I don't, First of all..."

Jim interrupted, "Oh, Oh, let me... you actually think I'm gay!" He was clapping and jumping.

John didn't respond.

"How did you even become a doctor?" Jim said, coming down from his excitement. "Not gay. But I'm not sick. I didn't rape Mary! I drugged her tea and used a turkey baster. Well, _I_ didn't but I paid someone to... I'd never _really_ hurt our Mary. Well not much anyway"

John's attention was suddenly drawn to the woman as she started breathing through a contraction.

"Her name is Molly!" Sherlock growled from across the room

James turned slowly, as the most sickening smile formed on his face. "I love it when I'm right."

John tried to get Jim focused back on him, since he _didn't_ have a gun pointed at his head. "So, you didn't rape her, but she's pregnant. Explain," he demanded.

"You've figured it out, haven't you?" his question was directed at the consulting detective. "Who's the father of Mary's baby, Sherlock?"

Sherlock refused to answer.

"Come on. Stop pouting. If I promise to call her Molly will you play?"

He rolled his eyes, trying to appear calm but John knew better. Sherlock was barely holding it together. "You don't know," he said in a flat voice.

James smiled. "Always so much fun to play with you, Sherlock. Really, you never fail to produce results." He turned and walked back to the centre of the room. "I'll take it from here. Mary- ah Molly- the baby you're about to pop out will either be mine, Sherlock's or John's. Weren't expecting that, were you?"

Molly cried out and grabbed for John. He and Richard looked up at the monitor and the doctor reached for a new set of gloves.

"How?" John asked, his head spinning as he forced himself to focus on Molly. "How could it be mine or Sherlock's?"

Moriarty turned back to Sherlock once again. "You want to or shall I?"

"John did you by chance sell any sperm when you were short on cash upon your return to London after the war?" Sherlock asked, never taking his eyes off of Moriarty.

"Fuck me!"

"No thanks, John. We've been through this." Jim smiled in his general direction then turned back to the consulting detective. "And you?"

"I have my suspicions..."

"Well let's put them to rest, shall we?." He walked over to the table and patted Molly's leg. "I'm truly sorry about this my dear."

"No you're not," she said through gritted teeth.

He smiled and winked at her. "Yeah, you're right." Turning back to Sherlock he said, "Do you have any idea what you get up to when you're high? You were using poor Janine and she was attempting to clear a debt with her boss. It's amazing what a little blackmail can do. For instance, it can make an attractive Irish woman jack off an unconscious junkie into a plastic cup."

All the sane people in the room groaned in unison.

"You sick piece of shit!" Greg said with disgust colouring his features.

"It speaks!" Jim said to the DI. " _I_ didn't have her do it, you moron. Chucky did. I just made a deal for the product. What _do_ they teach you to in Detective Inspector School?" He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Sherlock.

"What else?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yes. There _is_ more."

"She's burning up!" John yelled from across the room, once again drawing everyone's attention away from his best friend.

"Well do something, you're a doctor for fuck's sake," Moriarty scolded.

John moved over to the shelves behind the OBGYN and started looking around. "I need a flann... a washcloth. Can you help me?" he asked Molly's doctor.

Richard stood up, knocking over an instrument tray in the process.

"Oh for the love of... This is clearly your first hostage situation, Richard. You don't see John losing his shit, do you?"

John and Richard bent down and started picking up the fallen medical instruments. Then Richard showed John where to find a small towel for Molly's head. He nodded thanks to the younger doctor and went over to the sink to get it wet. He then returned to Molly's side, this time on her right, rather than her left.

* * *

Molly suddenly felt something cold and metal touching her right hand. She looked up at John, but he was watching the consulting criminal.

"Aaaaanyhoooo," Jim said getting the focus of the group back on him. "Of course there's more. Here's the deal, Moll Doll. If the baby's mine, I take it and leave you all in peace. If it's one of theirs..." He pointed to Sherlock and John."... I get to kill the daddy. Well, I won't but Wallace or Gromit will do it for me. So." He looked around the room. "Everyone understand?"

He faced Molly once again. "See, I'm not a monster. I'm both kind and benevolent. You have a chance to have Sherlock's baby. He certainly wouldn't have ever given you that."

"Or yours. Or John's," Molly said between harsh breaths.

"Yes, but a thirty-three percent chance isn't bad, Molly. You really should be grateful."

"And then you kill one of them? In front of me, I assume?"

"Well... _yes_. Where's the fun in doing it in a back alley?" he scoffed. "Are you getting my theme now?"

Molly managed to roll her eyes even though she felt another contraction coming. "I got it a long damn time ago. You're insane!"

"Theme? There's a theme?" Greg asked.

Jim let his head fall back as he looked at the ceiling. "Help me out, Sherlock. I'm getting trigger happy!"

"Molly's pregnant even though she didn't have sex with the father. The name he's given her, Mary Carpenter. Mary, Jesus's mother. And Carpenter, Joseph her husband was a carpenter by trade. Then there's this God forsaken town, Bethlehem." He sighed.

"If I could have managed a manger and livestock, oh... But they're harder to come by than you'd think." James was so thrilled he was practically vibrating with joy.

"Mar- I mean Molly, you're going to have to start pushing. Are you ready?" Richard said as he positioned her legs with John's help.

"No! I'm not fucking ready, you idiot! Did you hear what the psychopath just said?"

John wiped her forehead. "It's gonna be all right, Molly. One step at a time, okay?"

 _No, it's not. How is that even possible?_ she thought. "I'm scared, John."

"I know. Can I tell you something?" he whispered. "I am too. But you're having a baby, we have to do that first."

She started crying as she tried to remember her breathing. She hated feeling so weak in front of Jim and Sherlock. "Is it wrong that I don't know who I want the father to be? Am I a horrible person?"

"No, love. You're not. It'll be okay."

"I don't want anyone to die. Or to take my baby."

"Sherlock's here, Molly. He won't let that happen. Do me a favour and look at him. When you're scared, look at Sherlock."

She took a deep shuddering breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them she looked at Sherlock. _Oh my God._ He never took his eyes from hers. She heard the doctor telling her to push and she felt John holding onto her. She heard Jim cheering and clapping. But she could only see Sherlock Holmes. And she pushed. She pushed and screamed. _Oh, God help me it hurts. Don't let it be Sherlock's... or John's or... Oh, what am I supposed to want?_ She screamed and pushed until she heard a baby crying. Then she collapsed onto the bed.

She was exhausted. John wiped her forehead and kissed her cheek. She couldn't look at the baby; she was still looking at Sherlock, who was still looking at her.

"Who does he look like John?" she finally asked.

"Oh, Molly. Oh God."

"Noooo!" She looked up then to see a baby; he was the spitting image of Sherlock Holmes. The doctor was still holding him. "No. No. No. Please!"

James looked at John. "Cut the cord Uncle Johnny." His voice suddenly cold and dead. He was walking toward Molly.

John made his way toward the baby.

When Moriarty got to Molly he smiled and leaned down. "I lied. I lied and lied. It was always going to be him, you know. Only used his 'product'. Isn't this fun? And you get a keepsake. You're welcome."

"Please Jim, please."

He brushed the sweat-soaked hair out of her face. "Shhh, hush now. I have a genius to kill."

"Wait, please," Molly stopped him. "Can I ask you something?"

He rolled his eyes and bent back down again. "What is it Molly?"

"Why do you always do that?"

He looked puzzled. "Do what?"

"Underestimate me." With one swift move, Molly stabbed the scalpel John had slipped her into Moriarty's neck, slicing his carotid artery. He grabbed for her and for the scalpel as he fell forward onto her but she quickly dropped it onto the floor. Blood poured out of him, covering her.

All hell broke loose across the room, but Molly was almost too stunned to take it in. She watched as James Moriarty died, his bloody body finally slipping off of her and falling to the floor. Looking up she saw Sherlock struggling with goon number one, though he seemed to have the upper hand.

Richard, still holding the baby, crawled to the right side of the delivery table. John, scalpel in hand, wasted no time in assisting Greg and Sherlock in disarming the hired guns. It was over almost before it began. One of the thugs managed to get a shot off, winging Greg in the upper arm. His was the only real injury to speak of - aside from Moriarty, of course. And no one was lamenting his death.

Less than ten minutes after the death of James Moriarty hospital Security had the other two in custody and were questioning Sherlock, John and Greg. Local police were on their way.

A different doctor came and finished up the delivery, taking care of the placenta and checking Molly for tears. She was cleaned up since most of her upper body had been covered in Jim's blood. She gratefully allowed three pushy nurses to scrub her clean while her baby was weighed and tested. They made prints of his hands and feet. They fed him and gave him his first bath.

Finally settled into a room, they wheeled him in. But not alone. A social worker and police detective came in as well. Molly said she'd answer questions, but only if she could see her baby. The nurse handed him over to her. He was perfect, absolutely perfect. A mass of dark brown hair, blue eyes... he looked like his father though he might have her nose, it was too early to tell. She smelled his head, then kissed his cheeks. But the moment wasn't to last.

"Miss Carpenter..."

"Hooper. My name is Dr. Molly Hooper."

"Sorry, of course. I have that here, my apologies. Dr. Hooper. I'm Detective Peace. I need to ask you some questions."

* * *

 _Okay, so now we know! It's SHERLOCK'S baby! I hope you all liked this chapter please let me know. Lots more to come. Thanks for reading. ~Lil~_


	5. I Used To Live Alone Before I Knew You

_Okay, so I made a mistake in the last chapter. It seems that 'man spunk' cannot be sold in the UK. Most likely John wouldn't have been able to exchange his goods for cash. My bad! thedragonaunt corrected me and I really appreciate it! I welcome constructive criticism or 'fixes', always_ _! I don't, however, welcome snarky comments about my plot. Especially from guest reviewers. You see, I can't reply to you, dearheart. I can't say to you that you are wrong and no, it's not going to be all riding off into the sunset and hearts and flowers and whatnot. Bottom line... You don't like it… don't read it, anonymous guest reviewer who mocked the direction of the story! I enjoy writing. I enjoy receiving reviews and interacting with reviewers and commentators but let's keep this positive, shall we? I also had a guest ask about the rating. I can say this: I have eight chapters finished (for the most part, though they are being revised), if the rating is going to change it will be after chapter eight and I will let you know in the author's notes exactly where that change will be. _

_On that note, thank you all for your reviews and comments. There is a lot to come. I see this story in three parts. We've just ended part one (missing Molly - action and a bit of adventure) and are entering part two (hurt/comfort and a good amount of angst). I will not say anything about part three just yet ; )_

 _Thanks go to MizJoely for her unending support and beta work. She is as always, amazing._

 _No warnings on this chapter._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **\- I Used To Live Alone Before I Knew You -**

"What the hell's going on in there?" Sherlock growled as he paced the hallway outside of Molly's room.

John shook his head at his best friend. "Sherlock, this isn't London. You can't just say your brother's name and get things accomplished. Molly just killed a man after being his prisoner for nearly a year. They..." He took a deep breath. "They may not let her have custody of the baby."

Sherlock stopped. "What? That's insane! Where's that doctor? He can attest to the fact that it was self-defense! And where the hell's Grayson disappeared to?"

"First of all, it wasn't. He was going to kill you, not Molly... _probably_." He looked off into the distance for a moment, then added, "Who knows with that little psychopath. That's not the point. They can't just release a newborn baby to a possibly unstable woman." He paused to see if Sherlock was getting his point. He didn't appear to be. "Okay, try it this way: are you comfortable leaving her alone with your child right now? We have no idea what she's been through. Is she in the right state of mind?"

Sherlock stared at the older man for a moment then said, "She's clearly fine, John. She snapped out of it!"

John knew better and he suspected that Sherlock did too. _Wishful thinking? Since when does Sherlock Holmes engage in wishful thinking?_ "Just because she was capable of killing him doesn't mean she's completely fine. She was scared and full of adrenaline. At the _very_ least she'll need extensive therapy, possibly medication. For God's sake Sherlock, she just killed a man, she's not..."

"Me! She's not me. That's what you were going to say!" Sherlock interrupted.

"No, you king of pricks. I was going to say she's not like us!"

"Maybe she's more like us than you think."

"Really? _Now_ you think that? Because you've spent the last six years treating her like she's made of spun glass. But suddenly you choose to believe that she's tough enough to withstand _this_? Why? Because she killed Jim or because it's convenient?"

Just then Greg walked up. "Yeah, this'll be over soon." His damaged arm was in a sling. "Mycroft's on his way."

Sherlock smiled at John. "I knew having him as a brother would pay off someday." He turned to Greg. "When did you call him?"

"When I went to get Molly's bag from her bedroom."

"So..." Sherlock cut his eyes to the ceiling. "He should be here within the hour. Good. I'm already tired of this country."

John took a deep, cleansing breath. "Sherlock, your son is an American citizen."

The detective made a face. "I'm sure Mycroft can do something about that." He looked at his watch. "How long have they been questioning her? She should have legal counsel. I'm going in."

John grabbed his elbow just before he made it to the door. "Don't piss off an American policeman. And it would be a good time to start talking to her, got it?"

"I'm not an idiot, John. I'll be my charming self."

* * *

"This interview is over. Dr. Hooper's legal council is on the way," Sherlock announced upon entering.

"There's really no need for that, Mr..?" the detective said.

"Holmes. I'm the father of her child and we'd like a moment alone, if you don't mind." Sherlock gestured to the door.

"We'll be in touch, Miss Hooper," he said as he started for the door.

"It's _Dr_. Hooper. And you'll be in touch with her attorney," Sherlock said, rounding the bed.

The social worker gave Molly an apologetic look and followed the man out the door.

Sherlock turned, looking at Molly and his son. "What did they ask you?"

She didn't meet his stare. "Questions, lots and lots of questions. Oh and I can't go anywhere until they say so. Which is fine, I suppose, I'm really good at following orders," she said bitterly as she wrapped the baby up a bit tighter. "Can you put him back in that... thing?"

Sherlock started. "Oh, um... right." He hadn't held his son yet- hadn't even really gotten a good look at him, besides a quick glance just before the melee broke out in the delivery suite. He gently removed the tiny bundle from Molly's arms. "He's so small."

"Didn't feel that way," Molly said flatly.

Sherlock ignored her as he continued to take in every detail of his child. Finally he laid the sleeping baby down in the plastic case, then turned back to Molly. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm just peachy."

He took a deep breath. "Molly..."

"Sherlock, can we _not_ do this? I've had sort of a bad day."

He paced away trying to find the right way to approach her. This was definitely not something he was comfortable with. Finally he decided that head on was the best possible way. Turning back he said, "He lied. Whatever he said it was a lie. I never stopped trying to find you."

Molly laughed mirthlessly. "I'm sure you didn't."

"Then why..."

"He predicted this, your sudden interest in me." She turned and finally looked him in the eyes. "And you know what? He was right. I _am_ finally interesting to you. I became a case. You do so love a case, don't you Sherlock?"

"That's not why..."

"Of course it is!" she spit back. "When have you ever thought twice about me? When?" She paused and took a shallow breath. "I'm too tired, Sherlock. I can't do this," she whispered.

He moved closer to the bed; every part of him wanted to reach out to her, hold her, tell her... everything. But she was completely closed off, her arms folded protectively around her middle as she faced away from him once again. "I'm so sorry about all of this, Molly." He sat down in the chair next her bed. "I'm sorry about what he did, what he said. I'm sorry..." He looked over at his son. He couldn't find it within him to be sorry for the existence of his child.

It was hard to explain how he felt. He'd never actually considered becoming a father, but now that he was... He found himself instantly in love for the second time in his life, and he didn't really mind at all. Quite the contrary. _I have a son_ , he thought as he observed the sleeping infant. As he turned back to the woman in the bed he realised just how confused she must be.

"I'm sorry that you don't believe me, Molly. But, there's a lot more to all of this than you're willing to believe... at the moment."

She jerked her head towards him. "Lies."

He was tired too- exhausted as a matter of fact, his patience at its very limits, but he somehow found the strength to stay calm and not feed into her need to fight with him. "I know. I understand. This will be difficult for you, but you will eventually see things clearly." Even though he said it, he wasn't sure he actually believed the words himself.

Just then the baby started crying. Sherlock stood and picked him back up. He started to hand him to Molly.

"Can you ask a nurse to get me a bottle?" she asked as she took her son.

"Hasn't your milk come in yet?" He already knew the answer.

She gave him a hateful glare.

"You should be breastfeeding, Molly. It's important."

She stared a moment longer. "Fine, at least turn around... _please_."

Sherlock turned to face the ancient telly that was hanging on the wall. He wondered why it hadn't been replaced with a new flat-screen. He read the fire escape instructions on the cork board and the emergency weather procedures. Then he heard the baby crying and fussing.

"I can't, he won't..."

Sherlock turned back around to find a red faced infant and a struggling Molly.

"Here, let me help." He picked up a spare pillow from the end of the bed and positioned it under her left arm. "You're holding him wrong. Also, he can feel your tension. You need to relax. If you do this right you'll both feel better."

He re-positioned the baby and stroked his head. Finally the infant latched on and Molly sighed.

"Oh God, how on earth did you do that?" she asked as she let her head drop to the pillow.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed next to mother and child. "I may have read an ebook on the way here." He was looking at the nursing baby. "Or... twelve."

"Why would you do something like that?" she asked, looking a bit stunned.

Never taking his eyes from his son he replied, "I didn't have much information, Molly. All I knew was that you were alive, in America and... pregnant. I like to be prepared." He gently picked up the baby's tiny hand. His son automatically wrapped his fist around his father's finger. "He's strong."

Molly nodded.

Sherlock finally looked up at her and saw actual emotion in her eyes. "Mycroft's on his way. He'll have this all sorted."

"I'm going home?" she whispered.

Sherlock smiled. "Of course, Molly. We're all going home, together."

She was fighting back tears when she spoke again, "I miss home, Sherlock."

He moved up closer and sat next to her, facing the same direction. He put an arm around her, resting it on the pillow behind her back. He was certain his touch would not be welcomed at the moment. She didn't seem to mind. "I promise that this is almost over."

* * *

Molly shut back down when Mycroft arrived. Sherlock's focus had shifted to the business of getting her back on British soil as soon as possible, so he couldn't spare the energy to deal with her moodiness. Sensing this, John stepped in and used his famous bedside manner on the traumatized woman, helping to keep her calm with Lestrade's help. The men fussed over Molly and her son, eventually wringing a wan smile from her lips.

Mycroft managed to rush a paternity test and establish Sherlock as the father. There was still matter of the birth certificate. When asked about a name Molly seemed indifferent.

"We had an uncle named Aricin, our aunt's husband. I always like that name," Sherlock suggested. "It's Scandinavian. It means the eternal king's son."

"You really _are_ in love with yourself, aren't you?" John said, shaking his head.

"No. As I just said, _like_ the name. It's certainly better than Hamish."

"Git," John huffed as he turned back to Molly. "What about your father's name as a middle name, Molly?" John suggested, clearly trying to engage her in the decision.

"No!" she answered emphatically.

Sherlock quickly intervened. "We could use his middle name then." He knew the reason she was unwilling to use her father's name.

"That's fine, whatever you want to do," she replied dismissively.

Sherlock filled out the paperwork with the name Aricin Douglas Holmes, then picked it up and walked away.

John followed. "Did I miss something?" he asked once they were out of Molly's room.

Sherlock stopped walking, took a deep breath and turned to face his best friend. "Molly's father's name was James. Though his friends called him Jimmy, his name was James Douglas Hooper." He continued walking, wishing he could bring James Moriarty back to life and kill him again… slowly and painfully.

* * *

Mycroft worked his magic and took care of all the legal formalities. Sherlock didn't even care how. It took far too long in his opinion. Molly was released from the hospital two days after Aricin was born but couldn't leave the country just yet. It took another three days of questioning and Mycroft's string pulling with the FBI and CIA to make the events of that day disappear. Sherlock camped on Molly's sofa and John in her spare room while they waited. Greg had taken a flight home the day she was discharged citing the need to be 'getting back to work'. Sherlock was a bit jealous.

Everyone was hovering around her, pitching in where she lacked. Even Sherlock could tell she'd made no attempt at bonding with their child. The afternoon of the first day at Molly's house John pulled Sherlock outside.

"You have to step it up, mate," the army doctor told him.

"I'm sorry?"

"Molly's not herself, at all. And your child needs a parent, so..."

"I know what needs to be done, John. But I don't want to infringe on Molly. She... If I overtake certain duties, it will only make it easier for her to retreat into herself and continue this course of _not mothering_ that she seems to be set upon."

John seemed surprised by Sherlock's assessment of the situation. "I... well, be that as it may, Aricin is more important at the moment. He needs to feel love, the love of a parent. Anyway, it's possible that if Molly sees you, of all people, behaving like an actual parent she may just snap out of it."

Sherlock doubted if Molly was anywhere close to snapping out of anything, but John had a point. He had actually hoped that in killing Moriarty Molly had come out of the fog of the last eleven months. That hope was now long gone. His son needed him at the present time even more than Molly.

So Sherlock Holmes found himself in the unlikely position of temporary single parent, though assisted by his best friend. Molly spent her days holed up in her room, waiting for Sherlock or John to bring Aricin to her so she could feed him. When finished, Molly would put the baby back in his crib, but then she was back to crawling into bed and letting the men take it from there.

* * *

Six days after the death of James Moriarty the group was finally back in Mother England. Thankfully Mycroft had taken care of preparing Baker Street for their arrival. John's old room had been turned into Molly's room and nursery, though a Moses basket was also placed in Sherlock's room in light of Molly's current condition. Mycroft's people had purchased Molly an entirely new wardrobe since nothing she had fit her any longer. Everything was set up and ready for the unconventional family when they arrived.

Mary and a ten month old Anna met them at the airport. Sherlock asked the Watsons to accompany them back to the flat to help them settle in.

Four adults and two babies crowded in Molly's small room, taking in all the changes.

"Well, this is nice. Don't you think, Molly?" Mary asked.

"It is," she answered with forced enthusiasm.

John looked around in awe. "Why does it seem bigger than when I bunked here?"

"Probably the yellow paint," his wife answered. "It's a lovely shade."

Sherlock was looking at the mother of his child. "Do you like it, Molly?"

Her head jerked up at the detective. "Yes, of course," she said, forcing a smile.

"Well," John cleared his throat. "Let's give Molly and Aricin some time to settle in." He and Mary, who was carrying little Anna, left the room.

Sherlock turned to Molly and said, "If you don't like the colour…"

"It's fine, Sherlock. When are my things arriving from America?"

"They should be here by tomorrow," he explained. "Do you need anything?"

Her eyes seemed unfocused, and she looked a bit lost. "Just my life back," she whispered.

* * *

 _Baby Holmes' name is pronounced_ _air-eh-sin (in case you were having issues). It's the name of one of my son's best friend's and I really like it… so there you have it._

 _Thank you for reading. Please drop me a line and let me know what you think! ~Lil~_


	6. You Never Show It To Me, Do You?

_Glad everyone seems to still be enjoying the story. I know that the last chapter was a bit transitional but it was necessary. Also, I need to apologize for my 'outburst' about the guest reviewer. I might have gotten a bit preachy. I really appreciate all your comments and reviews, they mean so much!_

 _I had a_ _**lot**_ _of help with this chapter, so here are my thanks: MizJoely for her beta help and general amazingness, MrsMcCrieff for her Brit help and supernatural friendship 'skills' and Bekah1218 for her help on some medical business in this chapter and our lovely chats. She was a lifesaver. All of these wonderful women helped me, but any and all mistakes are mine._

 _Almost everyone had questions about therapy and postpartum... here are you answers. I tried to be as realistic as I could, using my own experience as a reference. I'm not too proud to admit that I've been in therapy and have experienced postpartum myself._

 _ **Warnings:**_ _Molly's gonna talk about what happened to her in this chapter. No surprises though._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **-You Never Show It To Me, Do You?-**

Molly started therapy almost immediately thanks to Mycroft and his resources. Sherlock was footing the bill, and Molly knew she was having to depend heavily- completely, rather- on him for support as she had no source of income. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but it wasn't as if she had any choice. She met two times a week with a lovely older woman named Sheila who specialised in PTSD. The problem was that she also seemed to be suffering from postnatal depression. That meant she had to see a psychiatrist as well. Psychiatrist plus postnatal depression equals antidepressants. After a long conversation with her doctor and an even longer one with Sherlock, they all decided on a medication that was safe for her to take while she was breastfeeding. It helped, it really did. She didn't feel quite so disconnected and detached as she had when they'd first come home. But there wasn't a magic pill to make her stop reliving nearly a year with James Moriarty or the awful things he'd said and done. Not to mention that she had killed him only moments after giving birth.

She didn't even feel emotional about the whole thing. Most of the time she felt almost nothing at all. The only time she could say she connected with someone else on a personal level, was when she was with Aricin. Being with her son did make things seem a bit brighter, a bit… hopeful.

The nightmares were easy to hide. Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of them. When he asked how she was sleeping, she'd tell him 'as good as I can with a hungry newborn in the room'. The truth was, oddly enough, Aricin actually calmed her when she woke up sweaty and terrified. She'd look at her sleeping (or sometimes _not_ sleeping) son and she'd realise she _wasn't_ alone in a house in Pennsylvania, but safe in Baker Street. It usually took several minutes to slow her breathing and get her bearings, but eventually she'd find herself somewhat at what at ease. Sometimes sleep would come once again, sometimes it wouldn't. She told her therapist about the nightmares, but she never told the father of her child.

There was also there was the fact that Molly had nothing to call her own. She had no job, no home and few possessions. Jim had taken everything from her and she still felt a shitload of resentment towards Sherlock. Sure, in the end he'd come for her, but she couldn't get Jim's words out of her head. She heard them when she was falling to sleep at night and every time Sherlock had tried to tell her that she _actually_ meant something to him. He'd tried to talk to her; she could tell he wanted to defend himself, perhaps offer some sort of half-arsed explanation as to why he hadn't said goodbye- why he'd ignored her for months, but she wouldn't allow it. After the third attempt he let it go, thankfully. Sometimes Molly felt like her place at Baker Street was solely as the mother of his child. A glorified wet nurse, as it were.

He was worried. She could tell he was in a constant state of 'what will Crazy Molly do next?'. She wanted to reassure him, tell him that she wouldn't harm Aricin or herself. But they didn't really talk unless it was about their child's care. They just hovered. They behaved like strange flatmates, well, the kind who shared a child. About four weeks after she started her medication she decided to sit him down and clear up a few things.

"Sherlock," she said, standing behind him in the kitchen.

He removed his safety glasses and turned, giving her his full attention. He looked a bit shocked if she was honest.

"I've just put Aricin down for a nap. Can we talk?"

"Of course," he said, standing and walking to the sink, presumably to wash his hands. "I'll meet you in the sitting room. Do you want some tea?"

"Ah, yeah. But I can make it." She started to move toward the kettle but he motioned for her to stop.

"No- no. I've got it. I'll be right in."

A few minutes later he came in carrying a tea tray, complete with her favourite biscuits. Molly actually smiled at the thoughtful gesture. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He nodded his response. "So, you wanted to talk," he said as he prepared her cup.

"Yes. Ah, I'm feeling much better since I started taking my medication. And I think you should start working again. Outside the flat, I mean."

Sherlock blinked looking rather confused then he shook his head and busied himself adding sugar to his cup. "Aricin is barely over a month old…"

"I'm aware of the age of my child, Sherlock," Molly snapped. She cursed herself for being so abrupt. This wasn't going to convince the man that she was on the mend. "Sorry. My point is that I don't need a babysitter anymore. I _can_ take care of him."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment. "I'm not babysitting you, Molly. I'm bonding with _our_ son. In case you haven't noticed I rather enjoy spending time with him."

She couldn't argue that. Sherlock had been wonderful. All those parenting books he'd power-read must have really done the trick. That or he was just a natural, she hadn't decided. But the newness would wear off eventually. "I'm sure you do, but it's only a matter of time before this becomes boring and you lose interest." She regretted it the moment she said it. The look of hurt that flashed on Sherlock's face was enough to make her want to take back her words. But she didn't- she couldn't.

He stood up. "I will start taking cases as soon as I see some semblance of the Molly Hooper I once knew. Until then… my son needs me." He stormed to his room.

* * *

"I'm not sure what to do, John. She's better but she's still…" Sherlock sat in his chair, feeding his son while his best friend sat across from him doing the same with his own daughter. The whole scene was incredibly surreal. Molly was at a psychiatric appointment, then she had to have some lab work run. They were monitoring her closely while she was breastfeeding.

"Can I make a suggestion?" John asked as he shifted Anna on his lap.

"Of course."

"What if you went with her to one of her therapy sessions? She's won't talk to you about what she went through, maybe she'd open up in a more clinical setting."

"What makes you think she'd agree to that?"

"Well, if you say that you'd feel more comfortable going back to work _after_ you learned about what happened in Bethlehem… she might agree," John suggested.

"Why does that feel manipulative?" Sherlock asked as he wiped a bit of milk off of Aricin's chin.

"It's not though," John argued as he stood up and gently patted his daughter's back, coxing a harty burp out of her. "You _are_ worried, and rightfully so." He put Anna into the playpen in the middle of the room. "She's not talked to any of us about what she experienced this past year. You have no idea what she's telling her therapist or if it's really working. Talk therapy only works if you're honest. Sometimes it's beneficial to have another person there. But listen to me." He walked closer, looming over his friend. "You can't be _you_ in this situation."

The detective rolled his eyes. "Yes John, I'm aware. Turn off the deductions when dealing with the emotionally compromised mother of my child. Got it."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Yes, the antidepressants are helping with her baby blues, but she's a long way from back to normal."

Sherlock made a mental note to tell John never to use that term in front of Molly. He'd made that mistake once... very much _not good_. "What if she never is?" he asked, finally voicing his greatest fear. His _new_ greatest fear. He was terrified that Moriarty had not only taken Molly from him for eleven months but had broken her… completely. That he'd put her through so much that Sherlock would never again see the light that he'd fallen in love with the first time he'd looked in her eyes. The bastard was still winning.

John held out his arms indicating he wanted to hold Aricin. "She's in there, Sherlock. She's still Molly. But I do think you need to tell her."

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "That's not a good idea, John. Even if she manages to recover from all of this, I can't imagine she'll want an actual relationship with me at this point."

The doctor kissed the baby in his arms then said, "You gave her the strength she needed to do this." He motioned with his head toward Aricin. "I saw it in her eyes. That's because she still loves you. I don't think she ever really stopped. How can you not see this? What the hell's wrong with you two?" He looked at the infant. "Do you know? What's wrong with your parents, Airy?"

Just as Sherlock stood up the door to the flat opened. "Don't call him that," he scolded his best friend.

"Don't call him what?" Molly said as she entered the flat.

"Airy," John answered.

"Oh, I think it's cute," Molly said with a rare smile.

"See, Molly thinks it's cute," John teased.

"Of course she does," Sherlock replied.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, looking slightly affronted.

"Because you're a w-w-woman," Sherlock stuttered.

John broke out into a fit of laughter and Molly just rolled her eyes and giggled softly. "I'll be back down in a minute to rescue my son from his misogynistic pig of a father." Then she went upstairs to her room.

John turned to Sherlock. "She's in a good mood. I suggest talking to her tonight. Here…" He handed Aricin back to his father. "Good luck."

Ten minutes later Molly came back down to find that John and Anna had left. "I didn't even get to see Anna," she said as she took her son from Sherlock.

"We can go visit them tomorrow if you want," he said, watching her carefully, trying to gauge her mood.

"I'd like that." She sat down in John's chair. "God, he looks more like you every day, doesn't he?"

Sherlock sat back down. "He does. Poor kid."

Molly laughed. "Right because you're so hard to look at."

 _Okay, this is it,_ he thought. "Molly, I'd like to come with you to your next therapy appointment."

She looked up from their child, her face had gone from happily content to shocked in a millisecond. "Why?"

"I think it'd help."

"It really wouldn't," she said.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Because what I'm dealing with is private and personal…"

"And you can't share that with me?"

She gave him an odd look; it was almost a sneer. "Why in God's name would I?"

Sometimes he didn't know what was worse: being without her or being with _this version_ of her. "Because I want to help."

"No you don't," she shot back. "You… why are you still doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Pretending to care. The case is solved. He took me to engage you. He did this," she nodded at their son. "to play a game. There are no more puzzles, Sherlock. Why don't you just go back to playing detective and leave us alone? You will in the end anyway."

"Damnit Molly," Sherlock whispered, sitting forward, not wanting to raise his voice in front of his son. "This didn't just happen to _you_. Whether you believe it or not I was in _agony_ while you were gone. I knew he had you and I tried everything I could to find you. But you were just... gone." Sherlock could tell by the look on her face that Molly was taken aback by his emotional display, but he was tired of pussyfooting around. Something had to give. "I've made mistakes, so many mistakes. I am trying though. You've just given up."

Molly looked shellshocked. She didn't speak for a several minutes. Finally she snapped out of it and said, "One appointment, Sherlock. I'll try."

* * *

Sherlock had already done his research on Sheila Freedman. She was a competent therapist, no criminal history, divorced with one grown child. Graduated from Oxford and specialised in PTSD.

"So, Molly. This is Sherlock that I've heard so much about," Sheila said, far too brightly for Sherlock's tastes.

"Obviously," Molly replied with a bored sigh.

"Do you want to start where we left off last week or was there something specific you wanted to discuss with Sherlock here?"

Sherlock watched Molly tense up and turn away. "I'm not really sure."

"That's fine. Whatever you're comfortable with, Molly. This is a safe place," Sheila said in a soft voice.

"If I may? Am I allowed to ask questions?" Sherlock interjected.

"Well, that's up to Molly," the therapist explained.

"What kind of questions, Sherlock?" Molly asked, looking forward.

"I simply want to know what happened. I want to know what he did to you- what he said to you about me, specifically."

"This is ridiculous. You know. You _always_ know," she protested. "Why would you make me relive it?"

He turned on the sofa and scooted a little closer. "You of all people know that I'm not good at dealing with emotions…"

Molly huffed out a laugh.

"...but in order to help you- to _start_ helping you heal, I need to know what happened and why you're so angry with me."

Her eyes darted from him to her therapist and back to him. "Fine. He made me leave. Said he'd kill you all, well you last so you had to watch everyone else die. He told me about the exile, which you hadn't told me about. That wasn't a lie, Sherlock. So I agreed." She looked down at her lap. She seemed ashamed at this point, if he had to deduce her body language. Though he was trying to hold back his natural instincts to do so. "I did it, went with him so that everyone would be safe. He could have taken me anyway, it's not as if I really had a choice."

 _Oh,_ he thought. _She feels weak at the thought of not fighting back._

"Once we got to Bethlehem he got me that house and a job after a while and just… visited. He'd tell me that no one missed me and you didn't care where I was. That you weren't trying to find me. He told me over and over how worthless I was- how pointless I was. That you'd always fed me just enough to keep me in your pocket- to keep me at your disposal. He said I was nothing more than a tool to you." She took a deep shuddering breath and averted her gaze once again. "In the beginning he… that first month he hit me. Knocked me out a couple of times. I think I had a few bruised ribs too. He threatened to do worse… much worse. Much more… personal _things_ to me. Sometimes I'd wake up late in the day, groggy and confused. He must have been drugging me. I assume that's how he... All part of his plan for me to just turn up pregnant. I was terrified when I found out. I just _knew_ it was his. I kept trying to remember if he'd raped me, but I couldn't remember anything." She finally looked at Sherlock again. "When I asked him he just laughed. He never hit me again after the pregnancy was confirmed, but he still came around. He still talked. God... he never stopped talking," she said in a whisper. "Sometimes he was even kind, though he was always a bit threatening."

She paused and took several gasping breaths. Sherlock was sure she was going to start crying, but she never did. It seemed like she was fighting it. This was the most emotional he'd seen her since the birth of their son. Other than brief bursts of anger vented at him, Molly had become as emotionally barren as he once was. He suddenly missed his ability to completely detach himself from a situation. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"It was like poison. He just kept talking and talking all the time. He'd send text messages or phone me if he was gone for too long. In the end he said he'd made me interesting to you. Made me a case. Said that was the only way you'd find me interesting at all." She was shaking and Sherlock desperately wanted to wrap his arms around her, hold her and frankly never let go.

"This is great progress, Molly," the therapist said excitedly.

"Shut up Sheila," Sherlock snapped, never taking his eyes off of the mother of his child. Finally he gave in to his instincts and took both of her hands in his. "I didn't say goodbye because I couldn't. I was in solitary confinement. That is the only truth in Moriarty's words."

Molly gasped. "What?"

"I've been trying to explain myself since we got back, but you weren't ready to listen. I'll give you the details… later. I don't think Sheila has the correct clearance level for this conversation. John and Mary were there when I was to leave, but again I'll have to give you the particulars later."

She nodded.

"I'm so sorry you went through all of this. I can't say the same for everyone else, but I didn't deserve being saved by you once again, Molly Hooper. And as sorry as I am, I am _not_ sorry that Aricin is here. I just wish that we'd conceived him in a more conventional manner," he said after a brief hesitation.

"I'm sorry… wh-what?" she stammered, looking a little bit dazed.

"That too is a conversation for another time." He paused. "John and Mary have our son for the rest of the afternoon. Would you have lunch with me, Molly?"

* * *

 _Wow... a tiny bit of light... Finally. Please let me know what you think. Thank you so much for reading! ~Lil~_


	7. I Told The Truth

_Thanks to o0katikins0o for her help on some breastfeeding issues in this chapter. Also thanks to Aphraelsan for her advice on the therapy (she's my Sheila!). MizJoely is the world's best beta, and I'll hear nothing different and MrsMCrieff is a fountain of British knowledge. These women are amazing! Mistakes belong to me, not them._

 _I've had a weird week. Both my husband and oldest son had ingrown toenail procedures (sort of surgery, I suppose) and my youngest kept getting hurt. He's fine, just an accident waiting to happen. Thank you all for your support. If I didn't respond to your review on the last chapter, I am sorry. I got a bit distracted. Like I said, it's been a weird week. I'll try to be better with this one._

 _No warnings this time._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~_

* * *

 **\- I Told The Truth, I Didn't Come To Fool You -**

Sherlock sat in his brother's office reading the final report on the events in Pennsylvania. Molly was, of course, cleared of all charges. Her name didn't even appear on any official documentation. As far as the Americans were concerned 'Mary Carpenter' killed James Moriarty. Handily the criminal mastermind had provided her with a social security number and fake birth certificate- the works. _Molly Hooper_ would never even have to testify in regards to her forced relocation or the killing. Mycroft was a pain in the arse but he _did_ get things done.

There was no organisation this time. Sherlock had done his job thoroughly, well, except for missing the fact that James himself was still alive. The psychopath must have spent the last few years licking his wounds and planning this giant _mind-fuck_ of a move. His goons had happily pointed to the rest of the players in the game for a bit of leniency, which fortunately numbered only a handful. Mycroft's people had rounded them up easily.

"Why, pray tell, did it take over a month to get you in here?" his brother asked.

Sherlock took his time finishing the report, then tossed it onto the chair next to him. "I'm not sure if you remember, Mycroft, but I have a newborn son at home and his mother is quite traumatized. This is what human beings call 'caring'."

Mycroft glared at him. "I care a great deal about Aricin, Sherlock, as well as Molly."

"Yes, but you show it with secret deals and redacted files. My son may appreciate something a bit more personal for a birthday gift, just a thought."

"How is she?"

If he didn't know better, Sherlock would have thought he heard a hint of emotion in his brother's voice. "Better. Healing."

"I assume you're keeping a better eye on your accounts now that you have _other people_ to take care of."

"Of course I am and you know it. You check them more often than I do," Sherlock shot back.

"The trust fund won't last forever, little brother."

Sherlock wanted to laugh. The way he lived (especially compared to Mycroft) it just might. Though he got his brother's point; a family meant much larger expenditures. "I'm still taking cases, Mycroft. And…"

"The Detective Inspector has offered to start paying you as a contracted consultant. I'd take him up on that offer if I were you."

"You and Gilroy spend entirely too much time gossiping," Sherlock said.

Mycroft ignored the remark. "Mummy's demanding a visit. She's been more than patient."

"Indeed. I'm just as shocked as you that she hasn't stormed the gates yet," Sherlock said as he stood up and gathered his coat.

"Ah, Sherlock… about Miss Donleavy?"

"What about her?"

"Don't be obtuse. You know to what I'm referring."

Sherlock gave his brother a blank face stare. He knew exactly what he was getting at, of course, he just wanted to make him say it.

Mycroft sighed. "Fine. Her participation in the acquisition of your… seminal fluids," he said with a cringe.

Sherlock grinned. "That was _so_ worth it."

"You're a child."

He laughed as he walked to the door. Turning he said, "Leave Janine alone. She was being blackmailed and I treated her horribly."

"As you wish," his brother replied.

* * *

Living with Molly was both heaven and hell for Sherlock. Though she had improved since their joint therapy session, she wasn't completely back to her old self, by any stretch of the imagination. She wasn't angry with him anymore, but she still didn't seem happy. John's advice kept ringing in his ears and he wondered if he should just tell her how he actually felt about her.

He had told her everything… well, _almost_ everything. He told her the truth about Magnussen and about Mary. After explaining 'pressure points', he explained that he'd avoided her in the months prior to his exile to protect her from the blackmailer's clutches. She didn't ask why she was a pressure point, though he saw the question in her eyes. He went through John and Mary's marital issues and their reconciliation at Christmas, something he'd cleared with the couple beforehand. She had taken the news that her friend had been his shooter better than he'd expected, even making a joke that she'd been tempted once or twice herself. Other than that one moment, Molly was… _stoic_ during their discussion, which took place at the flat after a light lunch at a restaurant near her therapist's office.

Finally he told her how he'd searched for her, how he'd never _stopped_ searching for her. Though he left out how completely broken he'd felt, how lost he was not knowing what had happened to her or what she was going through. He might have been able to share that with her, possibly, if she'd expressed some kind of emotion during the exchange, but she didn't. She never cried. She didn't ask questions. She just listened. In the end she thanked him and said that she had a lot to think about.

If he was expecting a sudden change, he was sorely mistaken. That's not how it happened. Aside from showing less hostility towards him, she was just as closed off as ever. She was still good with their son, though. Perhaps even better than before. When she was holding him, she seemed happy. He coveted those moments; watching Molly and Aricin was always the high point of his day.

Sherlock wasn't a passive observer, he never had been. He researched and researched some more trying to figure out his role in her rehabilitation. Cases continued coming in and he took whatever he could solve from the flat, still not comfortable leaving Molly alone for extended periods of time. Occasionally he sent John out to gather information if Lestrade just _had_ to get Sherlock's input. It wasn't enough and he was getting restless, but the last year had shifted his priorities. He wasn't about to make any more mistakes where Molly Hooper was concerned.

Mrs. Hudson came and went on a regular basis as did the Watsons and Lestrade. Her unpleasant friend Meena stopped by a couple of times, he made himself scarce on those occasions. Sherlock was pleased to note that Molly's persona didn't necessarily change with other people. As he observed her he noticed that she seemed just as reserved with the rest of the group.

The only time she really put on a front was when his parents came for a visit. Mummy had held out as long as she could, giving Molly time to adjust. There was finally a Holmes grandbaby and she needed to hold it! Sherlock watched Molly plaster on a smile and pretend that everything was completely normal. Two hours into the visit he could tell that the act was wearing her down.

"Mummy, it's time for Aricin's nap," he announced.

"Oh, but I don't want to let him go," she complained, then kissed his cheek for the hundredth time. The poor child was going to be chapped!

"Yes, well, he has a schedule…"

"We're in town the whole weekend, Mother. We can come back tomorrow," his father said.

Once they left Sherlock watched the tension melt out of Molly's shoulders. Then she did something completely unexpected. She fed their child in the sitting room… _in front of him_. He hadn't got to witness the ritual since he'd helped her in the hospital. He knew it was wrong, and he felt horrible for it, but watching the mother of his child release her milk laden breast and feed his son stoked something primal in him.

It was a beautiful sight.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was watching Aricin as he drank, his tiny arm waving around aimlessly. It was the most relaxed he'd seen her since she'd returned. She looked radiant and happy. _Content_. Sherlock suddenly felt his mouth go dry and his heart thud in his chest. She must have forgotten that he was there; it was the only explanation. He wasn't sure if he should make his presence known or just wait for them to finish. Either way she'd be embarrassed. More than anything he wanted to relish the moment, store it in his mind. Molly, his son… him. They were almost a real family, even if she didn't realise it.

As she started to move, presumably to switch breasts, she noticed Sherlock. He was sitting in his chair, trying to be as motionless possible.

She gasped and covered herself. "Why didn't you say something?"

Sometimes the truth just wasn't okay. "Sorry, I was in my mind palace," he lied.

She eyed him suspiciously as their son rooted into her chest, clearly impatient for the second half of his lunch. "I should have done this upstairs. I'm sorry, I..."

"You can do it wherever you like, Molly. It doesn't bother me. I was there the first time you…"

"Yes, I remember, Sherlock. But…" She stood up. "I'll just… he'll be tired when he's finished anyway," she said, then hurried to her room.

* * *

"God, Aricin," Molly said to her son once they were safely in their room. "Couldn't you give Mummy some kind of warning or something?"

 _That was borderline mortifying._ But she had been desperate to feed him and completely focused on Aricin from the moment the Holmes' left. All she could think about was getting rid of some of her milk before she started leaking too badly.

She sighed loudly when her son latched on once again.

Sherlock had told her at lunch after the therapy session that he wanted to 'start over', although she wasn't sure how to go about that exactly. She wasn't stupid: she knew that Jim had been feeding her information to further his plans, that didn't mean that it wasn't true. But now that Molly looked at Sherlock's behaviour without the _Jim coloured glasses_ she'd been wearing for the last year, she could see that something had indeed changed. When she thought about how he had acted since his arrival at her house the day she went into labour, she could see that he wasn't the same man he'd been before she'd left. Sherlock Holmes had matured, for lack of a better word. Oh, he was still moody and impatient at times, especially with John or Mrs. Hudson. But when dealing with her or their son, he seemed to be making a real effort.

After lunch they had picked up their son and gone back to Baker Street, where he proceeded to tell her all about the events that had led up to his near exile. He also told her about how he'd tried to find her. He seemed almost _desperate_. Seeing Sherlock Holmes actually expressing emotion (unrelated to a case) was… strange, to say the least. It caught her off guard. Finally getting the truth- the whole story- did help, but she was still apprehensive. Trusting Sherlock again would be opening up a huge can of worms. Not to mention she still didn't feel like she was completely in charge of herself- like there was something missing. There was a hollowness that she couldn't quite put to words. She had told Sheila about this; the therapist had her working on trying to identify her trauma and guilt- her nightmares. She kept telling Molly that they were making progress, but it didn't feel like it was happening fast enough.

Unfortunately there were these odd moments where she'd catch him just… staring. As she finished feeding Aricin and brought him up to her shoulder to burp, she recalled the look on Sherlock's face when she realised he was in the room with her moments before. He looked incredibly content, peaceful even. She was sure he was lying about being in his mind palace, that he'd been watching her. But why?

There had been moments like this in their past as well. His eyes lingering on her a little longer than altogether necessary, a secret smile that she was _almost_ certain was only for her. She used to obsess over such moments. It got better after his fall and even more so when he came back. He'd spent the day with her and clarified what she meant to him. She was important. She was the one he needed to help him stop Moriarty. They were friends and she mattered, she knew that. And that had been enough, at least until Jim started filling her head full of his 'Sherlock doesn't care' business. But now their relationship was very complicated and she didn't know _how_ to feel.

She simply didn't feel comfortable talking to any of her friends about it. John and Mary were far too close to Sherlock to be able to help her. And Meena wouldn't be helpful. She wasn't Sherlock's biggest fan to start with. Molly decided to wait until she could speak with Sheila again. Maybe she could help her sort things out.

* * *

A couple of days before Christmas Molly had gone shopping with Meena. When she got to the top of the stairs she heard the sound of violin music coming from down the hall. She had dropped off Sherlock's gifts at Mrs. Hudson's and only had one other bag, for Aricin, which she left in the sitting room. She was about to go to her room and see if her son was asleep in his crib when the music stopped and she heard Sherlock's voice coming from his bedroom.

She quietly crept down the hall hoping to get to see him alone with the two month old and was delighted to find his door slightly ajar. She couldn't see them, but she could hear Sherlock.

"...not sure if your Uncle John is really the right person to give out advice about relationships, Aricin. He did marry a former CIA trained killer, hiding her identity and running from her past. Though they are a perfect match. So that's a point in his favour."

Molly smiled, thinking he was giving their son relationship advice a bit too early. But it was cute nevertheless.

"My problem is that if I tell your mummy the truth, she really has no reason to believe me, now does she? What am I supposed to say? 'Molly, how was your day? I bought milk and did an experiment. Oh, and I'm in love with, by the way'. Or, 'Aricin needs a feed. Do you still have feelings for me? Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you'." He sighed.

She felt herself get all tingly like she wasn't getting enough air all of a sudden. _What the hell is he saying?_

"Most of the time I don't even think she wants to be my friend anymore, let alone..."

Molly covered her mouth. His voice sounded so sad.

"I miss her so much, Aricin. She's here, but I still miss her. She's just not _her_ anymore."

She turned and walked back down the hall, not wanting to hear anymore of what was obviously a private moment between the two Holmes men. When she got to the sitting room she was a bit lost. Did she just leave or act like she was coming in and pretend she'd not heard Sherlock admit to… being in _love_ with her. _Oh my God_. _This is_ not _happening_ , she thought. _He loves me but I'm not…_ me _anymore_.

She was still standing by the doorway trying to decide what to do when she heard Sherlock say her name. She turned around to see him standing in his dressing gown and sleep pants, holding their son.

"I didn't hear you come in," he said, looking a bit bewildered.

"Ah, I just walked through the door," she lied.

He nodded, seeming to accept her answer. "How was shopping?"

"Good, it was good." She looked at the infant. "Don't go snooping about, young man."

Sherlock laughed. "I think you're safe. Though I'd like to see what you got him just so we don't get him the same thing."

Molly had a sudden idea. "There's still a couple of days. Could we get him some gifts together?"

He looked shocked at first, but then smiled. "That'd be… sure."

"I'll go ask Mrs. Hudson if she'll watch him tomorrow and we can make a day of it." Even she noticed the overly cheerful tone in her voice. She sounded fake- forced.

Sherlock's expression darkened. "We don't have to if you don't want to Molly."

"No… sorry… I _do_ want to, Sherlock. It was my idea."

He nodded, although he still looked doubtful. "Well, I was about to feed him, but now that you're here…"

"Sure, as soon as I get back."

Oh her way down the stairs she remembered his comment about the _way_ Aricin was conceived. It suddenly made a lot more sense.

* * *

 _I know this is a bit of a slow progression. But Molly is healing and I don't want to rush things. Please let me know how I'm doing. Again, I will respond to my reviews this time. Thank you so much. ~Lil~_


	8. Maybe There's A God Above

_Okay first off, sorry about the delay, but I wrapped Sibling Disorder and needed to clear my head before getting back to this. Also, RL has been a bit… well, let's just say 'trying' and leave it at that. Want to thank you all for your continued support. Guest reviewers, I wish I could respond to you. Your lovely words mean so, so much. Of course I have to thank MizJoely for her betaing and general loveliness, she's a blessing. I think that's everyone on this chapter._

 _No warnings this time._

 _I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil!~_

* * *

 **\- Maybe There's A God Above -**

 _24th December_

Their shopping trip had gone surprisingly well. Molly's oohing and aahing over all the 'baby things' had Sherlock wishing he'd taken her shopping sooner. He'd been prepared for her to put on a front, but she didn't. Not completely anyway. Oh, she wasn't _his_ Molly, but she seemed to be _trying_ to enjoy herself. At least she wasn't being fake.

Though he abhorred shopping as a rule, he relished getting to spend time with Molly in a different setting. When they were finished she shyly asked if they could grab some lunch, saying that she was starved. He jumped at the opportunity. Half way through the meal he decided that if he squinted it could look like a date. Of course, his experience was admittedly limited (fake dating notwithstanding), and possibly quite out of date. Also Molly was simply a hungry Christmas shopper, but he'd enjoyed himself nevertheless.

Upon returning to the flat she became aloof and closed off once again, perhaps even more so than before. He had no idea what to make of it. He tried to talk to her, just idle chat, which was more than a little difficult for him. But after several minutes of monosyllabic responses and head nods she asked if he'd watch Aricin for a while she did some thinking. _Thinking_?

Now Sherlock found himself holding his son in a room full of people. _Tedious_. John and Mary had had the _annoyingly_ bright idea of hosting a party at 221B to celebrate Aricin's first Christmas and Molly seemed to agree, although somewhat reluctantly. So here he was with his parents, his brother, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, a few people from Barts and Molly's bitterly single friend Meena, pretending not to be in misery. He was certain he was failing.

"Oh Sherlock, stop hiding behind my grandson," his mother said, giving him a look that said 'hand over the baby or there will be consequences'.

He gave up the infant with a sigh, thus losing his last line of defense. Now he'd have to participate in the damn party. Considering his options, he tucked himself in the corner and scanned the small crowd. Thankfully John made his way over to him shortly thereafter.

"You look like you're about to bolt. That would be a bit not good," he said, handing Sherlock a scotch.

"I'm not going anywhere, John. But this is by no means my type of gathering."

"Really? And what _is_ your type of gathering?" John asked with a smile.

"There are usually more dead bodies," Sherlock answered flatly.

John laughed and looked across the room. "Molly seems to be enjoying herself."

Sherlock had been keeping an eye on her all night. "Yes, she's putting on a good show. She seems to have perked up the last couple of days, though I don't know why." He took a deep breath. "We had a nice time shopping the other day. But afterwards, she fed Aricin, handed him to me and closed herself off in her room for several hours. She barely spoke to me when I brought him in after his bath."

"Did you ask her what was wrong?"

The detective shook his head. "I wasn't sure what to do. Can't these mood swings just be hormonal? Her body getting back to normal after having a baby?"

"Sure. Mary went through something similar after Anna was born. But I think with Molly, given what she's been through, you probably shouldn't assume."

As the evening went on, and Sherlock continued to use his son as a shield whenever possible, he made sure to keep an eye on Molly. The longer he watched the more he was convinced that something was different. He didn't know what it was, but he was determined to find out.

* * *

Molly came downstairs after putting a very sleepy Aricin to bed. The party had worn him out. She accepted the tea Sherlock made for them with a small smile and a sigh. After five minutes or so she started to speak.

"I'm trying _not_ to hate Christmas, Sherlock. I just want you to know that," she said, looking in his general area.

It took a few seconds for him to realise what she was talking about. When he did he felt his gut churn.

"I've always loved the holidays. It's not just the gifts and family and the parties, but I'm actually pretty religious."

He, of course, knew this but he let her continue.

"My dad always read to us on Christmas morning. Usually from Luke." She paused looking at him, most likely looking for judgement. He had none. He might not believe in a higher power beyond knowledge and science, but how could he deny Molly anything that offered her solace and comfort? It wasn't as if he'd ever given her those things.

She gave him an odd look, almost embarrassed, then averted her eyes. "I'm sure you can't relate, probably think I'm being foolish. I do know how you feel about these… things. But the Christmas Story… I've always thought it was so beautiful. The idea that God gave us this man- his son, who was once just a baby..." She looked up once again. "...not unlike _our_ son. Then he grew up to do so many amazing things."

He noticed that the tea cup in her hands was shaking slightly.

"He had to ruin everything, didn't he?" she said, her voice starting to crack.

 _James Moriarty died too quickly- too painlessly_. Sherlock got up from his chair and joined her on the settee, not sitting too close. But he could tell she needed something at that moment and he'd figure out what it was if it killed him. He removed the cup from her trembling hands as he debated on whether or not he should touch her.

"He took me from my home, my job, my friends. Killed my cat, for God's sake! He hurt me and scared me. He even had to taint something so precious to me as Christmas with his filth." She stood up and paced away from him. "What's worst of all is that I can't get him out of my head." Turning to face him she said, "I'm not a beautiful woman, not sexy or enticing. I'm awkward and as you've pointed out not very funny. But my mind… I've always believed that I was smart, above average. I could control my emotions. Even if I had to deal with a child or a baby at work, I could be professional and detached enough to do my job. And I was damn good at it! But now I'm such a mess that I can't even properly mother my infant son without being afraid… _shit…_ I don't know." She was wringing her hands and breathing heavily.

Sherlock was trying to find comforting words when she spoke again.

"Is it always going to hurt to look at Aricin? Will he _always_ remind me of Jim? He looks like you, he's your son. But we didn't make him. Jim made him." Her voice was small, especially in comparison to her earlier ranting.

He rose from the settee and joined her in the middle of the room. Once he was standing in front of her she took his hand. Though still at a loss as to what to do, he couldn't help but enjoy the contact.

"I heard you talking to Aricin the other day." She smiled, it was incongruous to the situation.

He was so disoriented by her emotional outburst he didn't make the connection until she continued.

"You don't love me Sherlock. I tried to believe it. For a whole day I tried to let myself pretend we were a real family. But what you feel is obligation for Aricin and guilt for what happened to me. That's not love. Not really." Tears finally started to fall. "I've waited so long for this," she said with a deep sigh. "You, your love, a family. But it's all wrong." Bringing a hand up she touched his cheek. "God knows I wish things were different. I wish I wasn't broken. I wish you _could_ love me and for the right reasons." Moving her hand quickly she put some distance between them and wiped the tears from her cheeks. There was suddenly some kind of determination in her eyes, and Sherlock was terrified to find out what she was thinking.

She cleared her throat and started to speak, that's when Sherlock made a decision.

"Molly, will you take a seat please?" Taking her hand and led her to his chair. He then pulled John's chair closer and sat across from her and took both of her hands in his. He braced himself and let all the emotions he'd been keeping from her for months - no years- out, it was the only way. He'd giving this conversation a lot of consideration since her return, he just hoped he could get it right.

"What I'm about to tell you will change things, forever. For better or worse. But first of all I want to clear up some misconceptions. You've been wonderful with Aricin, especially considering what you've been through. He _is_ our son. Nothing that James Moriarty did can change that. And Molly, you _are_ beautiful. You _are_ sexy. And you most certainly entice me. While you might be considered awkward, I find it charming and wouldn't have it any other way. Even if I've never said it - even if I've made scathing comments about your jokes - I rather enjoy them." He paused and gathered his thoughts for a moment. "My feelings have nothing to do with obligation or guilt, though I do feel those things. I'll admit it is odd... all these feelings at once. A bit like being dropped into deep water and forced to learn to swim. It's still better than you being gone." He smiled, trying to reassure her and took another deep breath. "But, and this is the important part and the part for which you may never forgive me, I've _always_ loved you Molly." He forced himself to hold her gaze as he waited for her reaction.

She didn't move, just stared at him with impossibly huge brown eyes. Finally after what felt like an eternity she spoke. "When?"

He looked down at their joined hands, hoping she'd assume he just wanted to look where they were joined. But really it was shame. "The day we met."

He squeezed his eyes shut at her gasp. "I know you'll probably hate me more for this, but I couldn't hear you say those things about yourself." He looked up. "To me, Molly Hooper, you are all that's good about this world. You've saved me so many times, so many more than you even know. And I failed you. I let him take you and hurt you and you didn't even know why. He did it because he knew it would destroy me."

Sherlock felt the first tear roll down his cheek, but couldn't find it in himself to care at the moment. "I didn't even know I had a heart until that day in Barts when you started talking about the rate of corneal fogging during decomposition and you said we wouldn't have to worry about it this time, his eyes were more soggy than foggy. You smiled and laughed and I remember thinking that I was having an embolism. But I wasn't, I just didn't know how all-encompassing that kind of attraction could feel. That night I went home and I tried to delete you, but you wouldn't go away. You were everywhere. After a while I admitted defeat, but I told myself I wouldn't give in. That you were too good- too pure for me and all my… issues. You have to remember, Molly, I hadn't even been clean for a year at this point."

He sighed and sat back, wiping his face after releasing her hands. He needed to let her take in all the information and prepare for the next round. Molly, for her part, seemed to be taking things relatively well. He couldn't read much, she had sat stoically and listened to his speech.

"I'm sure you're replaying our interactions throughout the years, looking for signs. You'll find them, but you have to think like me. I don't advise it." He laughed. "I tried pushing you away, using you, manipulating you. All the while in my head- my… _heart_ , I was falling deeper and deeper in love."

Molly's eyes were focused at a point across the room and he was certain that she was going through their shared experiences like a movie reel.

"I didn't sleep with her," he blurted out.

Her head jerked up. "The Woman, Irene Adler. It's not why I was able to identify her body. There's... been no one"

She nodded slowly and said, "Well except for your fiancé," in a flat voice.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I didn't have sex with Janine…"

"That you know of."

"I made some… questionable choices…" he started.

"I'm not judging, Sherlock. I was engaged, if you remember."

They were getting off track. He had to get back at the matter at hand. "I can't do anything about my choices, Molly. But I can try not to repeat them. And I don't think I'm wrong about this, you were about to tell me that you intend to move out, weren't you?"

Molly looked down, nodded and wiped her eyes.

"I'm not going to let you disappear again, Molly Hooper. Do you understand me?"

She nodded again without looking up.

It took a moment to screw up enough courage to say the final bit, but he had to find out if she was… willing. "If you don't hate me- if you think you can still feel something for me, I'd like to… _try_." He took a deep breath. "We can start very slow. I know this is an odd situation, you living here and us already being parents, but I want this and I hope you do to."

When she looked up the pained look on her face caused another tear to escape from Sherlock's eye. Molly reached up and wiped it away with her thumb.

"I haven't felt much of anything for so long," she said in a whisper. Her voice got stronger as she continued. "But I don't hate you. I never hated you. I just stopped feeling _anything_ at some point. I can try though. I can try because I don't want him to win and because Aricin deserves it and… and because…" She swallowed.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's okay. You don't have to say it. You don't have to say anything. There's a big difference between _not_ hating and actually loving. But I love you and I love our son and I will wait as long as it takes." He put his hand over hers. "Molly, is there anything I can do for you? Anything that will help?"

She looked frightened for a split second then finally managed, "Will you h-hold me, Sherlock? Just… hold me. I want to feel again."

There were no words for what he felt at that moment. He would hold her until the end of time if that what it took to bring her some peace. Acting on instinct, Sherlock picked Molly up and sat her in his lap, circling his arms around her protectively.

"How's this? Is it okay?" he asked, nuzzling his face in the top of her head.

Molly nodded as she sobbed. "I'm ruining your shirt."

"I have lots of shirts."

She laughed just a little, then continued to cry for several minutes.

"It feels good to cry, as strange as that sounds," she said after taking a deep breath. "I stopped crying a couple of months after he took me. I didn't' see the point. And besides, Jim seemed to get so much joy from it. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction."

The thought of her having to be so strong made Sherlock both proud and angry at the same time. He suddenly realised that she'd snuggled further into his lap, her arms coming around his middle, holding him tight. _God, this feels good_.

"This doesn't seem weird," she said. "Why doesn't this seem weird?"

He didn't want to answer; the moment felt far too perfect for him to open his mouth and possibly ruin it. Finally the words came to him, as corny and obvious as they were. "Because it's us. You need me and frankly, Molly, I need you too."

He held her until she fell asleep, then he carried her to bed. She stirred awake as he tucked her duvet around her shoulders.

"Sherlock..." she said softly.

"Shhh, go back to sleep."

"Thank you."

"It's no problem. My legs were falling asleep," he answered.

She giggled. "No, I mean… for tonight. Everything you said. I know that couldn't have been easy for you. I didn't think anyone would ever love me again. And here you were, loving me all along." She reached up and touched his cheek. "I haven't felt this peaceful in a long time."

Sherlock swallowed hard and replied, "You're more than welcome, Molly." He looked up at the clock and realised what day it was. "Happy Christmas, by the way."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," she said before closing her eyes.

He checked on his sleeping son and then quietly slipped out of the room. _Miraculous_ , he thought as he made his way downstairs. He could still smell her shampoo on his shirt, and he could practically feel her arms around him as he sat on down his bed. For a fleeting moment he understood why Molly believed in God- in something greater than herself. Because a hope had bloomed in him unlike anything he'd ever felt in his life. And he let it. For once he let himself feel truly _hopeful_ about life and love and his future with his family.

* * *

 _Okay, I know Sherlock's a bit OOC here but I (personally) think the experience of losing her and going a bit crazy for a year then suddenly having her back plus a son, had a profound effect on him. He's still Sherlock... just a bit softer. I'd love to hear what you think though. Thanks so much for reading. ~Lil~_


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